Kindheit Ende
by Cris
Summary: Dark AU which begins just after Melchior is sent away to reform school.  Wendla's mother takes her to the village school headmaster to learn a terrible lesson.  Can Melchior save her before it's too late?
1. Chapter 1

_A/N: Hi Broadway peeps! I'm a Glee fan who finally decided to watch one of the bootleg YouTube recordings of Spring Awakening last week. It shook me a little because it's a very raw, unpolished production, but intensely moving nonetheless. _

_This is an AU set just after Wendla finds out she is pregnant and Melchior is sent away. There is no death-by-botched-abortion, but I want to warn people that this first chapter is nonetheless very, very dark. Child abuse, rape...yeah, pretty dark. For those of you with weak stomachs, I've placed a warning at the point where you should stop reading, and I'll post a summary at the beginning of the next chapter when it's safe to read again. I'd expect it to be up sometime later this week. For those who don't know me, never fear! My writing tends to be on the dark side, but I can't resist happy endings. Also, there's a little German sprinkled here and there throughout this story. I speak enough to know I don't speak it well, but I thought it gave that little hint of authenticity._

_All standard disclaimers apply._

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><p><strong>Kindheit Ende<strong>

"Mama, where are we going?"

Frau Bergmann only clutched her daughter's arm tighter and hustled them faster along the road.

"Mama, you're scaring me!"

The older woman's lips compressed in a fine line, but she still refused to speak.

"Mama, please!"

Frau Bergmann shook her head and stepped up her pace again. Wendla stumbled beside her, pulled forward by her mother's incessant grip on her arm. There would be bruises from her mother's fingers, and uncertainty turned quickly to fear in the face of Frau Bergmann's furious intent. Never had her mother touched her like this—not even that first day when the doctor disclosed the horrible truth that had changed Wendla's life forever. For the first time in her life, her mother had hit her—slapped her across the cheek. That had been three days ago, and they had not really spoken since. But this afternoon, just as Wendla was preparing to go to the _Postamt_ to see whether there was a note from Melchior, her mother had informed her that they had an errand.

Now they were almost running in their haste through the outskirts of the village, and Wendla began to feel a prickle of fear. Her mama never did anything so unseemly as _run_. The insistent fingers digging into her arm were frightening as well as painful. Her mama never raised a hand to her, only her voice. But this was twice now that she'd hurt Wendla, and she was beginning to fear the woman who had raised her. She knew her actions with Melchior had disappointed and angered Frau Bergmann, but she had no idea of the extent of her mother's fury. Now she feared it.

They hustled down a thin dirt track through lush green foliage, and after a moment Wendla realized where they were headed. It didn't make any sense, though. The only person who lived down here was the boys' schoolmaster, Herr Sonnenstich. When she was little Wendla and her friends used to accompany the boys to play tricks on the hated man, but she hadn't been near his house in years. Now she hesitated, wondering just why her mother was bringing her here. It couldn't possibly be for lessons—the girls had their own teachers, separate from the boys. She didn't even really know what the boys got to learn that she and her friends didn't, but her mother always told her not to worry about it. Boys and men existed in a separate sphere, Frau Bergmann said, and Wendla was not to concern herself with it.

But if not for tutelage, Wendla didn't understand why her mother would take her to see Herr Sonnenstich. He was a respected member of the town, but even among the adults he was not well liked. They appreciated the way he molded their sons into men, but they did not like when he attempted to use his domineering attitude with other adults. Only his university education and the fact that he was willing to live and work in such a small, rural village kept him around. So many people with his caliber of education refused to leave the cities, and the town felt lucky to have him. Other than listening to Melchior complain about Herr Sonnenstich's cruel teaching practices, Wendla admitted that she really didn't know much about the man, and she didn't have an opinion of him one way or another.

Wendla was young and under-educated, but she had a bright mind and keen senses, and she felt a sinking suspicion start to tighten in her belly. She didn't know why her mama was taking her to see Herr Sonnenstich, but she had a feeling he wasn't going to stay such a stranger in her life after today.

"Why are we going to see the boys' headmaster?" she asked her mother, panting a little as she struggled to keep up. She still didn't feel well, which her mother had grudgingly told her was normal for a woman soon to have a child. Her heart was beating faster than usual, almost fluttering in her chest, and she felt lightheaded and dizzy. All she really wanted to do was stop walking—drop to the ground for a much-needed breather. But her mother wouldn't let go, and they kept pushing forward toward Herr Sonnenstich's house.

"You have something you need to learn," Frau Bergmann said finally.

Wendla frowned. "But Herr Sonnenstich never teaches the girls," she argued.

"Well, he's going to teach you this."

The dizziness was getting worse. Wendla stumbled and would have fallen, but Frau Bergmann's unyielding grip on her arm made it impossible. She didn't want to go see the boys' headmaster. He made her nervous, and so did her mother's evasiveness and furious speed. "Melchior says—" she tried to protest.

"I don't care what Melchior Gabor has to say," Frau Bergmann snapped. "Damn it, Wendla! Be quiet for once!"

Wendla shrank from the anger in her mother's voice. She blinked back tears and tried to catch her breath. Melchior was gone, she told herself sternly. He couldn't help her with this. Mentioning him to her mama was foolish—while he had been the golden child in the eyes of the town, his banishment to _die Jugendstrafe_ had toppled him. Where once her mama might have approved wholeheartedly of Melchior as a match for Wendla—in a few years, when they were both of marriageable age—now the very mention of his name sent her into a rage. Wendla mourned for that small window of time, not so very long ago, when Melchior had been hers, his arms firm around her, his eyes looking so deeply into hers that she swore he could read her like a book. He wasn't like the other boys in town, and his uniqueness gave him an edge. He could have any of the local girls he wanted, but he'd chosen her.

And now Wendla didn't know if she'd ever see him again.

"Please, mama," she said, softer now. She didn't have much extra breath to speak.

"Hush, child. We're almost there."

They rounded a final bend in the small dirt track, and Herr Sonnenstich's two-story house appeared before them. The half-timbered structure was one of the biggest and most elegant in the village, and the headmaster was quite proud of it. A small orchard of apple trees surrounded the house, and there was a vegetable garden beyond, some chickens, and a pen with a goat. In that respect, it looked much like the other houses in the area. Herr Sonnenstich had no wife to keep house for him, but two of the other unmarried male teachers—younger men fresh from university—lived with him and helped him run the household. It was a common arrangement, a way for the young teachers to gain experience before they left to secure more lucrative jobs in better schools. Herr Sonnenstich often had at least one young teacher in his house. Frau Bergmann told Wendla it was only natural, and that it was very kind of the headmaster to open his house and his school in such a way. She only despaired that he had no wife to keep him company. Wendla had wondered on more than one occasion whether her mother wished to remarry after her father's death several years ago. They were not wanting for money, but occasionally she wondered if her mother might nonetheless be lonely. She adamantly did not want Herr Sonnenstich as her stepfather, though. She did not know him well, but she knew enough to know that.

Now Frau Bergmann pulled her daughter up to the front door of the imposing house and knocked twice. Wendla took the opportunity to breathe, shoving the dizziness away. She didn't know what was going to happen, but she wanted to be as prepared as possible.

Herr Sonnenstich pulled the door open and smiled at Frau Bergmann, ignoring Wendla entirely. "_Wilkommen!_" he said enthusiastically. "Come in!"

"_Gr__üß Gott_," Frau Bergmann replied. She pulled Wendla into the house, slipping her grip from her arm to her hand. Wendla wanted to rub the throbbing spot where her mother had grabbed her, but she refrained. Something deeply unsettling in Herr Sonnenstich's eyes stopped her. She sidled closer to her mama and squeezed the tight hand holding her still. She wasn't very happy with her mother right now, but she felt safer with her than she did with Herr Sonnenstich.

"What have you told her?" the headmaster asked, and Wendla looked up at him in worry. He was a tall man, his sandy hair just turning gray and starting to thin on top, and he was powerfully built. Not like the massive day laborers who toiled in the fields for a living, but he was still much larger than Wendla. Her dark eyes, wide and hesitant, showed her fear, and the headmaster smiled and reached out, stroking a finger against her cheek. On the surface it was the innocent gesture of an older man comforting a child, but Wendla had to force herself not to flinch away from the touch. His smile did not reach his eyes, which were coldly calculating. There was nothing reassuring about him at all.

"Only that she has a lesson to learn," Frau Bergmann said. "I felt it best that you explain the rest."

"Very wise of you, Frau Bergmann," Herr Sonnenstich said. "I'm pleased. Have you any questions before we begin?"

Wendla watched her mother, trying desperately to understand what was going on. Frau Bergmann did not seem entirely pleased, but Wendla knew from experience that her mama wasn't about to change her mind. She never did. Once made, Frau Bergmann's decisions were final.

"I don't want permanent harm done, Herr Sonnenstich," she said finally. Her hand tightened painfully on Wendla's.

"It all depends on your definition of harm, of course," he replied easily. "But I intend to cause as little as possible, lasting or otherwise. Will she be a different person when you fetch her back? Most definitely. But that is what you're paying me for, isn't it?"

"It is." Frau Bergmann considered for a long moment before nodding to herself. "Wendla," she said, turning to her daughter, "I'm leaving you here for a while."

Wendla's breath caught in her throat. "Mama? How long is a while?" She gripped her mother's hand tightly. She didn't want to be left with the headmaster for any length of time, and his words to her mother were less than comforting.

"That all depends on you, child. If you behave and learn quickly, perhaps no more than a few days."

"A few days?" Wendla shrieked. She wrapped her free hand tightly around her mother's arm, trying to fuse herself against the older woman. "You can't! Mama, please, no!"

The two younger teachers appeared then, standing silently in the room. They watched impassively as Wendla desperately tried to hang onto her mother and Frau Bergmann tried just as hard to free herself.

"Wendla, this scene is unladylike and thoroughly shameful," her mama said coldly. "Stop at once!"

Herr Sonnenstich nodded his head, and the two other teachers moved forward without a word. They each grasped Wendla by an arm, pulling her forcibly off her mother and holding her tightly between them. She broke down in tears, begging her mother incoherently not to do this.

"You've shown your mother that this is necessary, I'm afraid, child," Herr Sonnenstich said, and though Wendla could sense the facade of regret in his voice, there was a hard, cold undercurrent to it that she didn't like. "There's no need to cause a scene. You'll be looked after as you learn. Now say goodbye like a good girl, and let your mama leave so we can begin the first lesson."

Wendla shook her head and dropped it, refusing to look at either the headmaster or her mother. She had never been a disobedient child, but she did not want to obey Herr Sonnenstich and bid her mother goodbye. A deep sense of betrayal bubbled within her. Her father was dead, Melchior had been taken from her, and now her mother was leaving her in the hands of the boys' headmaster—a near-stranger. Nothing made sense anymore. She sagged against the restrictive arms of the two male teachers, letting the tears flow.

"It's all part of the process," Herr Sonnenstich assured her mother as he walked her to the door. "She will cry, but she will undoubtedly be all the better for it. As God chastises us all for our sins, so we must chastise our children."

"Thank you for doing what I cannot," Frau Bergmann said, and with that, she left.

As soon as the door shut behind Frau Bergmann, Herr Sonnenstich walked calmly up in front of Wendla. He gripped her chin in his left hand and raised her face to him. She tried to pull away from his cold hand, but he only held tighter and abruptly slapped her cheek hard. The impact knocked her free of his grip, wrenching her chin so hard that she knew there'd be a bruise later.

"Stop crying," he ordered, grabbing her face again and forcing it up. "Stop crying and look at me."

Terrified and in pain, Wendla tried to do as she was told. Her eyes opened wide, but they continued to leak tears. Her cheek throbbed and burned and she wanted to put her hand up to touch the flaming spot, but her arms were still held firmly by the two other teachers.

"You wanted to do things that are only permitted to adults," Herr Sonnenstich said coldly, not an ounce of remorse or kindness in his voice, "so you must not want to be a child anymore. Adults do not cry; therefore, you will stop crying this instant!"

Wendla tried to swallow a sob and nearly choked. She coughed several times and the dizziness returned. She tried to catch her breath, but her arms were starting to ache badly from the unnatural hold of her captors. "Let me go," she whimpered, trying to pull away from them. "Let me go, please—I'm going to—"

She clamped her jaw firmly as her stomach flip-flopped, trying to crawl out her throat.

"You won't," Herr Sonnenstich ordered. "Adults do not vomit their guts out over every trifling thing as children do."

But the end result was inevitable. Wendla sucked in another breath, and the smell of the old farmhouse and the wool suits of the men holding her combined in her lungs. She threw herself forward, and they released her arms just in time for her to catch herself with her hands as she dropped to the floor and threw up. The dizziness did not recede, and the darkness closed in as she retched, trembling and mortified, on the wooden floor of Herr Sonnenstich's house.

* * *

><p>Only a few minutes had passed when Wendla opened her eyes again, groaning slightly at the pain in her arms. She had thankfully collapsed to the side of the mess, but her cheek burned when she raised her hand and hesitantly touched it.<p>

A wooden bucket appeared in her field of vision as it was unceremoniously dropped by her side. She winced at the loud thump.

"Get up," Herr Sonnenstich's voice commanded from somewhere above her. "The well is out back. Clean up this mess, then go to the basement."

Wendla wasn't sure she could even move, but she was too afraid of that voice not to try. She levered herself to her hands and knees, shaking with the effort, and slowly worked her way to her feet. Her dress was wrinkled and she hurt all over, but she managed to heft the bucket and stumble toward the back door. Herr Sonnenstich and the other two teachers were still in the room, watching every move she made, and their eyes made her skin crawl. She'd never had so much intense attention before, and it didn't feel good at all. Only Melchior's rapt gaze made her tingle, as if each sweep of his bright blue eyes was really a feather-light touch laid softly against her skin. This didn't feel the same at all, and she hated it. Head bowed, she stepped out of the house and into the bright afternoon sunshine.

This was her opportunity. She could leave now, with no one the wiser. But where could she possibly go? Her mother's betrayal had cut her deeply; Wendla didn't know the reasons behind it, but she was smart enough to understand that her mother would just bring her right back here if she tried to go home. None of her friends' families would hide her, and Melchior was gone. She had nowhere to go, and no choice but to fill the bucket and return to the dreaded house.

She was beginning to feel a little better, at least. The dizziness brought on by her mother's rush to this house disappeared when she fainted. Now she had a headache in addition to the pains brought on by Herr Sonnenstich and his understudies, but at least she didn't feel like throwing up anymore. Slowly, dreading every step, she made her way back to the house.

After scrubbing the floor and emptying and cleaning the bucket, Wendla hesitated again. She looked up at Herr Sonnenstich apprehensively. He pointed wordlessly to an open door across the room, and with a silent sigh Wendla complied. The cold air that enveloped her when she stepped into the doorway told her what she needed to know—this was the way to the basement. She found her way down the steps by feel, then paused at the bottom.

Herr Sonnenstich followed, the two younger teachers behind him both carrying oil lamps. As the contents of the basement came into view, Wendla's breath caught in her throat. She had no idea what any of this was for, but she didn't like it at all.

"You won't need those clothes for the rest of your time here," Herr Sonnenstich said in a brusque, businesslike tone. "Fold them neatly and place them on that chair in the corner."

Alarm bells went off in Wendla's head. He couldn't possibly be serious, could he? She shook her head numbly and tried to sidle away from the headmaster. Unfortunately, that meant moving deeper into the large, dark basement and away from the stairs. There were no windows, no other exits. With Herr Sonnenstich and his two cronies blocking the stairs, she was effectively trapped.

"Adults don't undress in front of each other," she said weakly, trying to appeal to the ludicrous logic the headmaster was trying to drive home. Of course she was still a child. She knew that. One afternoon in the hay with Melchior wouldn't change things that drastically. But Herr Sonnenstich seemed to think it did.

The three men chuckled, and Herr Sonnenstich stepped toward her as the other two set their lamps down on small tables on opposite sides of the room. "That comment shows how ill-prepared you are to be the adult you seem so badly to want to be," he said. "Adults undress in front of each other far more often than young children do." He considered her, and the twinkle in his eye was mocking. "Or don't you remember how that baby got in your belly?"

Wendla felt a blush heating her cheeks. Oh, she remembered, but she hadn't known at the time what would happen. "Melchior and I didn't—" she started before forcing herself to be still. What had transpired between them in the Gabor hayloft was private. No one needed to know, no matter how much they goaded her.

"Don't try to deny it, girl; the doctor has confirmed the evidence." Herr Sonnenstich stepped menacingly toward her. "Will you obey, or will you force me to do it for you?"

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><p><strong>STOP HERE IF YOU ARE EASILY SCARRED FOR LIFE! I WILL POST A SYNOPSIS AT THE BEGINNING OF THE NEXT CHAPTER.<strong>

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><p>Still Wendla hesitated. She'd never undressed before a man, which was what she'd tried to tell the headmaster. Yes, she and Melchior had lain together in the hay. Yes, he'd touched parts of her body previously unknown even to her. But she hadn't actually undressed in front of him—not fully; not really. And she didn't want to do it now in front of his teachers. "No," she said quietly, her heart hammering in her chest. She didn't know what disobedience would mean in this place, but she wasn't stupid. She knew it couldn't be good. Still, she couldn't do it; she just couldn't. Not here, not like this. What she and Melchior had shared was beautiful. It was passionate—as he'd said, it was <em>good<em>. Undressing here and now could never be those things.

"Knüppeldick. Knockenbruch. Grab her."

At the order from Sonnenstich, the two younger teachers stepped forward. Wendla flinched away, but the flight of one girl against three grown men was laughable and soon they had her by the arms again. She sobbed openly as the older man stepped in front of her and efficiently unbuttoned and untied her dress and underthings. He pulled the fabric from her arms, the two younger teachers shifting their grip from sleeves to skin as it was bared.

"No!" she protested even as her dress pooled at her feet, followed by her chemise. She trembled, held in place in only her shoes and stockings. Herr Sonnenstich moved away and picked something up that had been lying on a table. It was a thin, flexible switch, and he smacked it against his leg, making a sharp thwack. She cringed away from it, fighting the two who still held her arms.

Herr Sonnenstich calmly stepped up behind Wendla, and she craned her neck to keep him in her line of sight. "What are you doing?" she asked hesitantly, her soft voice full of fear.

The lash against her ass came without warning, and she cried out as the switch laid a line of fire against her flesh. He struck her twice more without speaking.

"Now," he said, and his voice was too calm. "Now maybe you'll understand just how serious I am when I give you an order. Women obey men just as children obey parents—and make no mistake, you _will_ learn to obey me."

"No!" Wendla protested through her tears. She knew the Bible said a man must be the lord of his home, but she and her mother had lived just fine without one for years now. She wasn't going to give her submission to Herr Sonnenstich just because he was a man. Something inside her rebelled despite the physical pain and humiliation. Something wouldn't let her do it.

"Yes," he insisted. "Fighting me will just make it harder for you. You _will_ submit to me, first as a woman and then as a child. The only question is how much time and pain it will take before you learn."

Wendla shook like a leaf in the cold basement, but it was the ice in his words rather than the subterranean air that scared her. She heard the whistle of the switch cutting through the air before it bit into her flesh again, and she cried out against the fiery burst of intense pain.

"I'm leaving welts, you know," Herr Sonnenstich said, his voice far too calm for what they were discussing. "They're lovely—all raised and red against the pale curve of your ass. I could continue striping you all day, believe me. But it's time to continue your first lesson. I want you to remove the rest of your clothing and fold it neatly on that chair in the corner. Will you do as I say? Or must we continue with the switch?"

"No," Wendla protested weakly through her tears. "No, no, no."

"No what? No switch, or no you won't comply?" He tapped her burning ass impatiently with the switch, and not gently. She yelped as the hard rod prodded a throbbing welt.

"I'll do it," she said finally, dropping her head. "I'll do it. Just don't hit me again!"

"If you're a good girl and behave yourself, I'll have no need to hit you." Her Sonnenstich nodded to the other two teachers, who released her arms. Trembling, Wendla stepped out of her shoes and pulled down her stockings. She folded her clothes as neatly as she could with her shaking hands and clutched the soft bundle against her chest. Three pairs of male eyes were trained on her the entire time, and she didn't like it at all.

"Put them on the chair," Herr Sonnenstich repeated. "You won't need them for a while."

Wendla slowly stepped over to the wooden chair indicated and lay her clothes on the seat. She didn't know what was going on, and she didn't like it. But her backside stung and burned enough that she wasn't going to disobey. Not right now. Not with the threat of another switching looming large.

"Good girl," Herr Sonnenstich said approvingly. "Now come here."

Slowly she walked toward him, though every bone in her body was telling her to run. She had no choice, and nowhere to go.

"Tell me how old you are," Herr Sonnenstich ordered when she stood before him.

"Fifteen," Wendla whispered.

"Fifteen _what_?"

She blinked. "I don't know what you mean."

A frown of displeasure rolled across his face. "I am your better, girl, and you will address me as such!" Quick as a flash his hand shot out and slapped her cheek again. "Fifteen what, Wendla?"

"Fifteen, _mein Herr_," she said, spitting out the honorific as calmly as she could despite the fact that she didn't want to call him that.

"Good girl. And do you think, Wendla, that a fifteen-year-old child should be fucking like an adult?"

Wendla flinched at the harsh sound of the verb, though she had never heard it before. "I—I don't know what you mean, _mein Herr_," she whispered.

A cruel smile spread across his mouth. "Don't you? Don't you, indeed?" He chuckled. "Hold her down."

The two younger teachers sprang to life, one grabbing her shoulders and the other her knees. They hoisted her off her feet and forced her to her back on the cold packed-dirt floor. Wendla screamed, her fear blossoming into full-blown terror as she realized what they meant to do.

"Little Wendla," Herr Sonnenstich said, and the mockingly-sweet lilt to his voice made her skin crawl. "A fifteen-year-old child should not be fucking little boys like Melchior Gabor. But if you insist on engaging in adult activities, then by all means, go ahead. But you must be willing to accept the consequences."

"I didn't know the consequences!" Wendla sobbed as the two teachers shifted their fierce grip on her. One pulled her hands up above her head and knelt on them, ensuring that she could not move. The other sat on her legs, so no matter how she twisted and fought, she could not get free. "Mama never told me," she stuttered, struggling against her captors. "But I have a child in me now—I have accepted that!"

"Ah, no," Herr Sonnenstich said, shaking his head and smiling coldly. "Not that consequence. I mean this one—if you wish to act like an adult woman, you shall be used as such." He picked up two lengths of coarse rope, the kind used in barns, and tossed one to the teacher sitting on her legs. The teacher moved, grabbing her right ankle and tying the rope firmly around it. Herr Sonnenstich caught her left ankle before she could move to kick the other man and looped his rope around it just as tightly. They pushed, forcing her knees to her chest and then parting them, tying her ankles tight to some metal rings pounded into the hard earthen floor.

Wendla didn't know if she would ever breathe properly again. Her heart hammered in fear against her ribcage, and she couldn't move anything but her head. Her legs were tied tightly down by the ankle, and Herr Sonnenstich and his crony used more rope to secure her knees as well, canting her hips upward and spreading her knees and ankles as far apart as they could, then tying her tightly in that position.

"Melchior admitted to learning about sex in books," Sonnenstich said. "Our society is still civilized enough that we hide such learning from our girls and women. What you know of the body comes from men, and men only." He knelt between her spread legs and Wendla tried to flinch away from his large unyielding body, but there was nowhere for her to go. She was tied in place like a ritual offering, the third teacher still kneeling on her hands so they could not move. The cold air between her legs felt foreign and frightening. "You wanted to know about the body, little girl? About sex?" The headmaster smiled again, but it was a gesture that could never reassure anyone. "So be it. I'll teach you so much, you'll be begging me to spank you like the child you are and send you home to your mama. I'll teach you so much, you'll never want to overstep the bounds of childhood again."

Without warning, he reached forward and closed the fingers of his right hand around one of her naked breasts, pinching cruelly hard. She cried out, which only made him smile more.

"Lesson one, Wendla. These are your breasts—such as they are. I prefer a girl with more meat on her bones. You're nothing but a little fairy, hardly developed at all." He pinched again, rolling the nub between his hard fingers. "The nipple, here, is extremely sensitive. Wouldn't you agree?" A vicious pinch made her scream. "Men like to touch and fondle and lick breasts, and play with nipples. Did Melchior do this to you? Did the little boy know enough to touch you here?" He raised his other hand and grabbed her other breast, squeezing the small, soft mound tight enough that she was afraid he would leave bruises.

"Knüppeldick," Sonnenstich said to the man not currently holding Wendla's hands down. "Would you like to play, too?"

"Please," the other teacher said, and his cruel smile echoed the headmaster's. He lowered his head as Sonnenstich released one breast, and sucked the reddened nipple into his mouth. He sucked ruthlessly hard, rubbing his tongue and teeth against the hard, abused bud. Wendla screamed again, pain shooting through her body. Her breasts were already sore from the pregnancy, and the rough treatment was excruciating.

"Please don't!" she sobbed, twisting and writhing, trying to escape the harsh male hands and mouth. "Please stop!"

"Most men prefer women with nice, full breasts," Knüppeldick said, ignoring her pleas. "I like them just like this—almost unripe, if you will. Like a green apple before its first hint of red—tart and firm, not lush." He licked the line of her clavicle, then returned to her nipple and bit down hard.

Pain lanced through the sore flesh. Wendla arched her back and cried out again.

"So responsive," Sonnenstich said, chuckling. "I can see why Melchior Gabor chose you, my little fairy princess. You are not yet ripe, just as Knüppeldick says, but that makes it all the more entertaining." He swept a hand across her abdomen and down her belly, heaving with her heavy, terrified breaths. "Your mama was right to try to shield you, treasure, though it backfired horribly on her, didn't it?"

Tears leaked steadily from her eyes, dropping down the sides of her face and into her hair. She was adrift in pain and unpleasant sensations—the cold of the packed dirt floor, the bite of the rope against her ankles and knees, the fire still throbbing in her backside from the switch, and now the new pain in her breasts. She whimpered, unable to stop herself from fighting though it was useless, as Sonnenstich's hand traveled lower, eventually cupping the area between her legs. He held his hand there as if claiming it, his touch proprietary and methodical, nothing at all like Melchior's passionate embrace.

"Lesson two. I daresay you have no idea what you did with Melchior, nor have you the vocabulary to describe it. Therefore, I'll teach you." He removed his hand and stroked the back of his fingers across the soft vertical lips that her current position had wrenched apart. "Here is your labia majora. In a woman ripe for the taking, they will be covered in dark, curly hair. You have just the lightest beginnings of this—more proof that you had no business letting Melchior fuck you in a hayloft. But you made the choice, little girl, and now you'll suffer the consequences." He spat on his fingers, rubbing the saliva around, then touched between her legs. "These inner lips are called the labia minora. Such pretty ones you have, too—they're so little, and such a sweet rosy color." He rubbed his hand up and down the slit between her legs, held wide open for everyone in the basement to see. "This part of the body we call the vulva. It's all quite sensitive, as I'm sure you're quickly learning." He raised an eyebrow at Wendla, looking her in the eye for the first time since he began lecturing. When his eyebrow raised his hand did too, and he brought it down against the tender, sensitive flesh between her legs with a stinging smack.

She cried out, and he smiled thinly. "Be glad I'm not using the switch," he said. "Be a good girl and recite back to me what I've told you thus far." He pinched a fold of her outer lips tightly. "What is this?"

"L-labia majora," she stuttered, tears leaking from her eyes even as she squeezed them tight against the pain.

"And what language is that?"

"L-latin!" she panted. Girls did not learn Latin, but she knew that much.

"What a smart girl," Herr Sonnenstich said, but there was no comfort in his voice. "Now this." He pinched a small inner fold.

"Labia m-minora," Wendla panted. "Please, please stop!"

"The lesson is not over," he said coldly. "Is that Latin as well?"

"Yes," she whimpered.

"And the whole area between those pretty legs of yours? What is that called, and from what language is it derived?"

"Vulva," she repeated dully, squirming as he rubbed his hand against her sensitive flesh again. "Latin again," she guessed. It didn't sound Greek, anyway. She swore she'd learn every word perfectly if it would just make this "lesson" end faster.

"What a good student," he crooned, continuing to rub between her legs with a heavy hand. It was uncomfortable and humiliating, and she hated it. The softer touches were almost worse than the ones meant to cause pain. "Let's move on. You have a tiny hole through which you pass liquid waste, called the urethra, but we're not concerned with that today. We're concerned with your other holes. You have two more." He spat on his hand again and put it back between her legs. "This one back here," he said, running a finger around the smaller opening of her ass, "is for passing solid waste. We may concern ourselves with it in due time, but not right now. Right now we're more interested in this one." He moved his hand to the middle of her slit, and Wendla caught her breath as she felt him press just where Melchior had pressed. Like before, her body yielded in some secret way she didn't understand, and his finger was forced unceremoniously inside her. She yelped. It hadn't felt like this in the hayloft. While Melchior had not exactly been gentle, he had at least seemed concerned about how she felt. Herr Sonnenstich had no such regard for her feelings, and he rammed one finger deep inside. She yelped and keened, twisting and writhing, wanting nothing more than for the burning pain of the invasion to stop. With Melchior it hadn't felt like this at all.

"This is the hole we're concerned with," Herr Sonnenstich continued as if she wasn't quaking with intense pain beneath him. "This is where your monthly blood flows—and I know you've begun that, or else you wouldn't have a child in your belly now. The menses mark fertility in a young girl. Before them, you cannot harbor life." He wiggled his finger within her, causing a burning, tearing sensation. Wendla screeched, but he merely chuckled. "Yes," he agreed, "I imagine it doesn't feel very pleasant for me to do this right now. You're dry as a bone, and still so small and tight. When your body wants to accept a man, as it did young Herr Gabor, it secretes a lubricant liquid to make the process pleasurable rather than painful. But you don't want me or Knüppeldick or Knochenbruch to touch you, and so your body is dry and is trying not to accept me." He withdrew his finger, which was almost as painful as insertion. "This hole is called your vagina, and it is meant to accept whatever a man wishes to put into it—be it a finger, a penis, a tongue, or an inanimate object." He chuckled and stroked his finger along her opening without forcing his way inside this time. She quivered in fear that he would, but his next words proved his misinterpretation of the response. "Don't worry, little fairy girl. We'll get to more insertion soon enough."

He ran his hand further forward, and suddenly his fingers found a spot that made her cry out again and try to twist away from his probing fingers. He chuckled. "And that, my girl, is your clitoris. Medical debate rages as to whether it really exists, but for my part, I believe it does. How else to explain this?" He rubbed hard against the small knot of nerves, making her yelp and contort as she tried to get away from the pressure of his fingers. It was too much on that incredibly sensitive spot, and the over-stimulation turned to intense pain.

"Stop!" she begged, trying to pull her hands free. "Stop, stop!"

Melchior had found that place, too. She didn't care what it was called or the derivation of the word—her lover's hands had coaxed pleasure from her body unlike she'd ever felt before. But this wasn't pleasant at all; it was just raw, overwhelming pain, and she needed it to stop.

"No," Herr Sonnenstich replied calmly to her cries to stop. "Women don't tell men what to do. Little girls don't tell adults what to do. However you see yourself, you do not dictate my actions. Your mama gave you to me for this purpose. Your body is mine to do with as I please, and you have no say, little girl. Do you hear me?"

"Stop," she pleaded, crying in earnest now. "Please stop,"

He ignored her, but he spat on her clit as he rubbed it roughly. The moisture eased the pulling pain of being touched dry, but it intensified the sensation of his rough, insistent hand. Through the pain she could feel a more familiar building ache, just as she'd experienced in the hayloft with Melchior. Against her will, her body contracted and plunged off the cliff she'd felt before, but there was no pleasure in it. The pain was enveloped in a rush of burning sensation, and then only intensified as her tender body became even more sensitive in the aftermath.

Finally Herr Sonnenstich stopped and removed his hand. He rubbed roughly across her exposed vulva before wiping his fingers against her inner thigh. She was surprised to feel wetness coat her skin.

"And that," he said, laughing as she cried, "is called an orgasm. But don't worry, pretty girl. I only did it to make you wet—I have no interest in fucking you dry. Now that you're lubricated, you don't need to have any more. This lesson isn't about pleasure." He reached up and patted her cheek. "Not yours, at least."

With that, he shucked off his coat and lowered his trousers. He sprang free, and Wendla's eyes went wide. She hadn't really seen what Melchior looked like underneath his clothes, and though she understood that there was _something_ he'd placed inside her, she hadn't really expected it to look like...that. Sonnenstich's stood out perpendicular to his body, red and twitching. It looked almost swollen, and the rounded tip was slowly leaking a clear fluid. Below the shaft hung a sac with what looked like two eggs, the skin wrapped tightly around it. The shaft was bare, but hair grew like a nest all around it.

"I see by your eyes that you haven't seen this yet, though you've felt it," Sonnenstich said, stroking himself with a fist. "Shall we continue the lesson? The length is called the penis, and the sac below is the scrotum. All of it is quite sensitive and responds well to touch. But the best kind of touch is a good fuck, which is what I'm about to do to you." He knelt between her legs again and raised himself above her. "I warned you of the consequences, and this is it. You want to act like a woman? Well, myself and my two dear friends here are going to let you."

"No!" Wendla pleaded. It hadn't exactly been comfortable even when Melchior did this, and at least then she was willing. Now she was anything but.

But Sonnenstich ignored her, as he ignored all of her pleas, and he took himself in his hand, aligning the thick length of him with her vagina. "I've no doubt this will hurt," he said pleasantly. "You're so small, you see, and I'm a full grown man, unlike young Herr Gabor. But you must remember that you brought this on yourself."

Without another word, he forced the tip inside her.

Wendla screamed. She didn't want this, and she felt like she was tearing apart. She didn't care what he said about lubrication—her flesh still burned and stung as he pushed deeper into her body. He stilled himself after a moment, and she wondered if he was giving her time to get used to the painful sensation as Melchior had. But no. He was just assuring himself that he was lined up properly, the head of his penis fully submerged, before he rammed the rest of it home.

"God help me, you feel amazing," he grunted, pulling almost all the way out and then shoving in again. "Maybe there's something to this young girl thing after all. So tiny—so tight." He swore, but Wendla was past caring what sort of vulgar language came from his mouth. She felt like a calf being branded, except on the inside. It burned, it stung; she felt ripped apart. Gabbled cries for him to stop just turned into a long, keening scream.

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><p><em>AN: Please note that a true BDSM relationship is always safe, sane, and consensual, and takes place between adults of legal age. There's nothing wrong with a relationship of that nature. This is not that. This is abuse, pure and simple. Aaaaand on that note I have to go take a shower after writing this. I feel dirty._

_So what do you think? Should Melchior come rescue her next chapter, or should we wait a while? Reviews = faster updates!_


	2. Chapter 2

_Nope, sorry, no Melchior yet. Only three reviews, so I guess no one else wants him to come to the rescue. I've got his entrance already written, but he's not gonna show up until people tell me they want him to. ;-) **SpringAwakened**_, you left an unsigned review so I couldn't thank you personally, but I'm thanking you here! Yes, Melchior is at reform school and yes, he will show up to rescue her (assuming people review telling me that's what they want, of course!) __

_Once again, the beginning is marginally safe to read and I'll post a warning when those with weak stomachs should turn away._

_All standard disclaimers apply. Oh, and to answer a question, the title means "Childhood's End." _

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><p><strong>Kindheit Ende<strong>

She didn't sleep. She was too afraid.

All three of the men had taken turns raping her, watching, and holding her hands down. One of the younger ones had even gone twice. Sonnenstich merely chuckled and lamented that he didn't have the stamina of youth any longer, while Wendla wept brokenly on the floor. She was too tired and in too much pain to do anything else.

But that night, as they untied her and left her locked in the basement, she could not sleep. Her body ached all over, and the area in between her legs—_vulva_, she thought, the word coming quickly to her mind from Sonnenstich's repeated "lessons"—burned and stung. Moving was extremely difficult, and when she put her hand hesitantly to her abused flesh, it came away coated in sticky wetness. It didn't smell like blood, but she couldn't quite be sure. They took the lamps with them, and she was alone in utter darkness.

Shivering on the cold dirt floor, she crawled slowly to the corner where they'd forced her to leave her clothes. She found them by touch and pulled them on, shaking violently. Her stomach growled and grumbled, and she tucked herself up into a tight ball even though it hurt to do so. She hadn't eaten lunch before her mother forced her out of the house, and the thought of dinner hadn't even crossed her mind in this hellish place. Her throat was sore and dry from screaming, though, and she wished desperately for some cool water or soothing tea. Not that anything so simple could soothe the myriad hurts shooting through her body and mind.

_Why_, she thought desperately as she huddled in the corner, too terrified to sleep. Why had her mama given her to these men? To learn a lesson, Frau Bergmann said. It made Wendla suspect that she'd known what was going to happen. The thought of her mother willingly submitting her to this torture broke her heart. She knew her mama was very angry about what she and Melchior had done. Frau Bergmann had made that abundantly clear. But Wendla had no idea her mother's anger could go this far—that she could subject her daughter, her own flesh and blood, to something so awful.

"Please tell me you didn't know, mama," she whispered into the darkness of the silent basement, though she knew it was an empty wish. Her heart understood what her mind could not yet fully comprehend. Her mother had known. She'd known, and she'd handed Wendla over to Herr Sonnenstich anyway.

But what sort of "lesson" was she meant to learn here? Wendla didn't know. There was no hope of escape, so her only means of getting out of this terrible place was to figure out what the boys' headmaster wanted from her. Obedience, he had said. He wanted her to become a child again. But how was she to do that when she'd never really stepped into adulthood in the first place? One afternoon in the hay with Melchior did not change the fact that she was still a girl and not yet a woman; of that much she was certain. But how to convince Herr Sonnenstich? He'd said he would make her never want to lie with a man again. But that wasn't a problem, was it? She didn't want to lie with men. She only wanted Melchior, and he had been taken from her. So there was really no problem, was there? She hadn't wanted Sonnenstich or his under-teachers to touch her. She didn't want any of the other boys in town to touch her, either. Only Melchior. And what was so wrong with that? Did Sonnenstich want her to renounce all touch, all forms of human comfort? He'd certainly cut her off from almost everything she could think of. Her friends didn't know where she was. Her mother had betrayed her. Her father was dead and Melchior sent away. Her sister had not spoken to her since the doctor gave them the frightening news. Wendla didn't have anyone left.

Suddenly a thought occurred to her, one she hadn't realized before. She was wrong. She _did_ have someone left. Still shaking with cold and fear, she dropped her hands to her belly and held them there, just where her sister had grown big before her babies came. Now there was a child inside Wendla, and she realized with a sudden rush of emotion that she wasn't all alone after all. This was someone they couldn't take away from her, as they'd taken Melchior. This child was part of her and part of him—how, she still wasn't quite sure, but the biological facts didn't matter to her in that moment. What mattered was the sudden warm reality of realizing she wasn't completely alone. She had a part of Melchior with her, and soon—how soon she didn't know—she would be able to hold it in her arms, just like she held her nieces. Except this one, this baby, would be hers and not her sister's. She would be able to love it with her whole heart, love and protect it the way her mother had not protected her.

"I hope you're a boy," she whispered into the darkness. "A little boy with Melchior's curls and bright blue eyes. But, boy or girl, I'll love you no matter what. And I'll never, never let anyone hurt you like this. Not ever. I'll tell you the truth always and never hide it from you."

The bright hope of a future with her baby swelled within Wendla, and she settled back against the cold wall. Right now she was in pain—terrified and confused and deeply, deeply hurting—but someday soon she would have this treasure Melchior left with her. Until then she held close to the secret knowledge of it growing within her, and she didn't feel quite so alone.

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><p><strong>Boy the bad stuff came quick this time! This is your official warning; the rest of the chapter is violent and dark!<strong>

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><p>"You, girl!" Sonnenstich ordered, and she blinked in the sudden light as all three men came down the stairs bearing lamps. "Did I say you could put your clothes back on? Take them off now!"<p>

"I'm cold," Wendla tried to protest, shrinking back into the corner. Her teeth were chattering and she was shivering against the cold, damp air of the basement.

He chuckled cruelly. "Well, we'll just have to find a way to warm you up, won't we? Don't make me tell you again."

Wendla shook her head, feeling the beginnings of tears pricking her eyes. She didn't know if her punishment for disobeying would really be any worse than taking her clothes off in front of these men again. She knew what they wanted to do with her body, and even though the switch had hurt when he used it on her, the spanking hadn't been as humiliating or as excruciating as what came later. "No," she whispered. "Please, please leave me alone."

Sonnenstich's face darkened. "Do you want another switching? Is that what you're telling me?" He paused. "Or should we try something else?"

She shook her head slowly, the tears spilling over. "No," she begged. "No, please."

"Take her."

With his words, the two younger teachers were instantly in motion. They grabbed her and forced her to lean over a tall, backless stool. One took some of the rope from yesterday and tied her arms down against the rough wooden legs. The other pulled up her skirt and chemise, exposing her legs and bottom to the cold basement air. With her center of balance so thrown off, Wendla couldn't shift enough to gain traction and kick; she had to keep her feet planted. She squealed as Sonnenstich stepped up beside her and brought his hand down hard against her backside in a stinging smack.

"You _will_ learn to obey," he said, and with each word he spanked her hard, his hand covering both cheeks with firm strokes. She cried out as each bruising spank pushed her sore, abused genitalia against the hard edge of the stool. "Horses are broken with the whip, and naughty girls like you are broken much the same." He continued to spank with his hand, hitting her sore flesh in a steady rhythm that did not cease. "This is just a warm-up," he said after a few minutes' silence, the quiet only broken by Wendla's frantic noises. "You don't seem as afraid as you ought to be of the switch, so we'll move on today to the belt. People respond to different sensations. Perhaps the sharp sting of the switch wasn't as effective on you as the fiery lash of a leather belt."

"_Mein Herr_," one of the other teachers spoke up, his voice taut, "please, may I...?"

"Yes, of course," Sonnenstich said. "I know how arousing a sight like this can be."

Out of the corner of her eye, Wendla saw the younger man unbutton the front of his trousers and slip his hand inside. Her stomach contracted with revulsion as she saw him pump his fist inside the flap of fabric.

Finally Sonnenstich paused. She was limp over the stool, crying in earnest. Her ass had gone from pale cream striped with red lashes from yesterday's switching, to a dark fiery scarlet. It would be purple before he stopped. He unbuckled his belt and drew it from his waist.

"Look at me, Wendla."

She turned her head feebly, and he wasn't sure she could actually see through all the tears falling from her eyes. Her face was red from crying and from being held upside down. He showed her the thick leather belt, doubled over in his fist. "Naughty girls get spanked," he said. "You must learn this eventually. I really don't mind doing this—I could keep it up all day, though your poor ass can't. For your sake, I suggest you learn this lesson sooner rather than later."

"I'll be good!" she sobbed, tugging futilely against the bonds holding her wrists to the stool legs. "Please stop! I'll be good!"

"Your punishment for this morning's disobedience is not over," he said coldly. "When it is, you'll have a chance to show us what a good girl you can be."

With that, he stepped close to the stool again. Teasing, making her wait and anticipate his movements, he brushed the doubled-over end of the belt across her exposed, throbbing bottom. She shuddered and caught her breath with each light touch. He had no doubt that even the smallest contact was excruciating by this point. Chuckling under his breath, he raised the belt high...

...and brought it down on her flinching skin with as much force as he could.

This time Wendla didn't yelp or cry—a full-blown scream broke from her throat. He smiled at the sound and lashed her again. The skin went white at the blow and then burgundy as blood rushed to the area. Already each lash mark was raised and extremely painful-looking, and by the awful noises she was making, apparently he was finally getting through to her. Just to be sure, he planned to give twenty good lashes with the belt. It was a lot, but this little girl needed to learn her place and she wasn't going to do that by being babied.

Fire wasn't the word, Wendla thought as the fifth and then sixth smacks rained down one after the other. This was beyond that—beyond any pain she could ever have imagined. She screeched, she screamed, and she tried to move away from the torture, but the younger teacher without his hand down his pants was holding her stool firmly and not permitting it to move.

This was Hell, she decided finally. Her mother had sold her into Hell, and she didn't know why. But as the belt smacked against her backside again and again, she slowly felt her last vestiges of hope slip away. Herr Sonnenstich was right. He was going to break her, and she would do as he said. _Anything_ he said, just to avoid this ever happening again. It was too much, and she didn't know if she could survive it even this time.

"I'd stop crying if I were you," he advised calmly. "You're not getting food or water today, so you'd best save what little liquid you can."

But she couldn't stop—she was physically unable. The tears leaked out of her eyes without her control.

Finally the lashes stopped. She slumped over the stool, still unable to stop crying. His warning about not wasting water through tears was useless—she had no control over the noises leaking from her mouth or the wetness falling from her eyes. Was this what it was like to be truly broken? She didn't know, but if it wasn't, she didn't want to get any closer.

"Sonnenstich," the teacher with his hand down his pants pleaded. "I need—"

"Patience," the older teacher said, catching his breath. "Untie her and take her over to the big table. Then we won't have to kneel on the floor."

Wendla felt her wrists being untied. The raw scrape of the coarse rope barely registered. Hard hands lifted her, and she was unceremoniously dumped on a large wooden table in the middle of the room. She'd seen it yesterday and eyed it with trepidation, but now it hardly mattered to her. Her throbbing ass burned and smarted as she was forced onto her back, the pressure bringing unbelievable pain to the abused flesh.

One of the younger teachers hastily grabbed her hands and forced them to the edges of the table above her head. Leather restraints were built into the corners of the table, and she felt a prickle of warning fear as her wrists were buckled tightly in. Her clothes were pulled from her body with ruthless efficiency, and then her knees were forced to bend. Sonnenstich stood at the end of the table and grabbed her hips, pulling her until her throbbing backside lay just at the edge of the table and her arms were stretched tightly, painfully, to their limit. Her legs were spread and tied down to the outside of the table legs, so she was once again wide open and at the mercy of the three men.

"You may begin, Knüppeldick," Sonnenstich said, as if bestowing a grand gift.

The teacher who had had his hands down his pants groaned appreciatively and eagerly took his place between Wendla's spread legs. He dropped his trousers with a muttered, "Thank god!" and buried his thick length violently inside her, ramming his entire cock inside at once.

The pain from the previous day was only further ignited, and Wendla screamed again. He thrust hard and deep, grabbing her hips and pulling painfully at her with each quick movement. The violent motion further irritated her throbbing backside, and the tearing, burning sensation from yesterday only intensified as he thrust and withdrew over and over again. Wendla hadn't really understood Sonnenstich's harsh verb yesterday, but now she did. Melchior hadn't fucked her, no matter how intensely passionate their union had been. But now she knew the dirtiness and the shame she had only sensed before in that word. _This_ was what Sonnenstich meant—this brutal abuse of her body. Melchior had wanted her, but he hadn't _taken_ her. Not by force. Not like this. Through it all, she had retained her sense of personhood, her sense of wholeness and self. Now that was forcibly ripped from her as Knüppeldick's hard male member impaled her over and over again. She wasn't a person to him. She was just a way for him to find cruel pleasure.

"She's still wet and sticky from yesterday," he groaned, forcing himself inside her again. "God, so tight! In the old days they married this young. Makes me wonder why we don't anymore."

"Women's lib, no doubt," Sonnenstich said, reaching up a hand to pinch one of Wendla's raw, red nipples and roll it between his fingers. "You're hurting her—she can't stop crying. Silly saps think women should be older, their bodies more mature and ready for rough handling. Myself, I thought I agreed until we were given this sweet young thing." He chuckled and squeezed a small breast, mottled with bruises from yesterday. "Now that I've had a taste of youth, I think there's something to be said for it. That cunt is so small, so tight. Makes me hard just thinking about it."

Knüppeldick grunted again and sped up his strokes, spasming jerkily as he came inside her. Groaning, he pulled his cock out and began stroking it with his hand again.

Sonnenstich stepped between her legs for a turn, but even as he aligned himself and forced his cock inside her, Knüppeldick grabbed her chin and turned her to face him.

"See this?" he said, angling her chin so she was forced to stare at his other hand pumping his dick. "I'm trying to keep it up for you, my girl. All for you. We're going to have so much fun today! Herr Sonnenstich says we get to try something new." He chuckled. "I can't wait."

He released her chin, only to grab his balls and rub them as he pumped his cock. Wendla wanted to close her eyes; everything about these three men disgusted her. Sonnenstich was ramming into her now, his rhythm slower than Knüppeldick's but no less painful. The third teacher came up on the other side of her and spat on the fingers of his right hand, then purposefully slid them between her parted labia. He unerringly found her clitoris and began rubbing it harshly, which made her shriek and wriggle, trying to get away from the painful, over-the-top sensation.

Sonnenstich only laughed, shifting his grip on her hips as he held her tightly. "Not too close to me, now," he warned the other man lightly. "It's one thing to watch a fellow have his fun with a girl and quite another to touch."

"Understood, _mein Herr_," the younger teacher said easily. He kept rubbing hard at her clitoris and reached up with his other hand to flick his nail against her nipple. "I only want to see her come again. That look in her eyes..."

"Yes," Sonnenstich grunted, his pace picking up in the way Wendla was quickly realizing meant he was close. Relief washed through her, though it was short lived. The third man had yet to use her today, and Knüppeldick's straining length had not deflated. He would be ready for more at any moment. "Pain and surprise and shock...I'd be surprised if little Melchior Gabor knew enough to even attempt to please her." He came suddenly, holding her tightly to him for a long moment before slipping out. Chuckling, he stepped to Wendla's side and patted her cheek. "A lot of fuss and bother for something that probably wasn't even terribly exciting, eh, girl? It's just as well," he continued, moving away from the table as the third man forced himself inside her. "If you actually liked it, we'd have a much more difficult time re-training you."

The pain was too intense—Wendla's mind wasn't working properly. But one thing stood out above the writhing stew of shame and hurt. She _had_ liked it. With Melchior, that was. His hands on her skin were amazing, drawing forth pleasure that mixed headily with the hint of fear. But Melchior's touch was nothing like this. Melchior made her feel good, not used and dirty and shameful.

"We're going to try something new today," Sonnenstich said when the third teacher was finally finished. He unbuckled her hands as the other two untied her legs. "Knüppeldick, you look more than ready. Why don't you be our test subject?"

"Gladly." He pulled his trousers completely off and sat on the stool they had previously bent Wendla over.

"Remember to behave, little girl, or it's the belt again," Sonnenstich warned. He folded his arms and stood next to Knüppeldick. "Come here and kneel in front of him."

Heart pounding, Wendla forced her aching body to move. She collapsed to her knees a safe distance from the two men, knowing they'd force her closer anyway.

"All the way over here," Sonnenstich ordered. The third teacher came up behind her and prodded her ass with the sharp toe of his boot and she squealed, jerking away from the pain. She shuffled closer to Sonnenstich and Knüppeldick though she didn't want to, knowing she had no real choice.

"Let's see what you remembered from your vocabulary lesson yesterday," Sonnenstich said. "I want you to get up there and kiss his testicles. You were a little distracted yesterday, but you did learn that word." He chuckled.

Knüppeldick laughed too, and spread his legs further apart. Hating every moment, she unwillingly moved closer to him. She held her breath in case he smelled bad, and put her lips quickly against the hairy, drooping sac before darting away.

"Ah, no, my fairy," Knüppeldick said, grinning widely. "None of that now." He grabbed her shoulder and hauled her close again before weaving his hands through her dark hair, holding her firmly in place. The leaking tip of his cock was right in front of her mouth, and she had a sickening idea of what he planned to make her do.

"Tell me the other parts of the male anatomy you learned yesterday," Sonnenstich ordered, "and the derivations. Kiss each as you name it."

Wendla wanted to throw up, but there was nothing in her stomach. It lurched violently, if futilely. "It's all Latin," she whispered.

"What a smart girl," Knüppeldick crooned, tightening his hands in her hair. "Now show us that you know the parts. Come on, my fairy. You can do this."

Wendla wasn't so sure she could. Not because she doubted her mind, but because she doubted her ability to obey such a sickening command. But her backside could not handle another spanking, and she knew that was her only other alternative. Swallowing back bile, she turned her head and pressed her lips quickly to the side of his twitching length. "Shaft," she whispered softly. She moved her head and touched her mouth just where the length met his body. "Base." Then she hesitated. She didn't want to do this next part. The head of his penis was leaking a clear, sticky fluid, and she didn't want it anywhere near her mouth. Her stomach rolled again.

"Keep going," Sonnenstich ordered. "One more. This time, I don't want to see a closed-mouth kiss. I want you to stick your tongue out and lick—a big, long lick. Either you lick him, or I lash your ass."

There was nothing she could do. A tear trickled down her cheek. "Glans," she whispered, "or head." She screwed her eyes shut tight, held her breath, and licked the glistening tip.

"Unnhhh," Knüppeldick grunted. He tugged at her hair. "Good girl. Open your mouth now, fairy girl, and let me fuck it properly."

"Do as he says," Sonnenstich ordered when she stared at him dumbly. "I am headmaster, but he is still a teacher and you are nothing but a disobedient little student."

When she did not obey as swiftly as he would like, Knüppeldick removed one hand from her hair, leaned down, and pinched a nipple hard. She yelped, and as her mouth opened he straightened and forced the entire thick length of himself inside.

"You bite me and I'll make you wish you'd never been born," he grated, biting the words out through clenched teeth.

But Wendla didn't think she was even capable of biting at the moment. She couldn't even breathe. Her stomach heaved, and before she could react or even think about stopping it, she retched violently. Knüppeldick's member was forced out of her mouth, along with painfully acidic bile from her otherwise empty stomach.

"Fuck!" Knüppeldick jumped away from her, hastily wiping himself clean on his discarded trousers. "Usually it's only after I come down her throat that a girl pukes on me!"

Wendla huddled on the floor, shaking with fear and disgust. She pressed her forehead against the cool packed dirt, crying as quietly as she was able. She didn't want to cry anymore. She didn't want to feel like this. She dry heaved again, retching, but there was nothing in her abused stomach to expel.

"I warned you that this could happen," the third teacher said from behind her, sounding bored. "She's pregnant, or don't you remember the reason she's here? Her stomach is too queasy for you to do that to her right now."

"I thought it might help if we didn't feed her," Sonnenstich said with a sigh. "But you seem to be right."

Knüppeldick smiled cruelly. "How many times do you think we'd have to kick her belly to fix that problem?" He leaned back and regarded her for a moment before suiting action to words and landing a vicious kick to her midsection.

Wendla screamed as she fell to her side, curling in on herself. White light exploded in her head from the pain. She hurt too badly to really understand why he had kicked her, but she huddled tightly on the floor, protecting her soft underside as best she could.

"Frau Bergmann was very clear about permanent damage," Herr Sonnenstich said, grabbing Knüppeldick's arm and holding him back. "While I'm sure she wouldn't mind the loss of this bastard, we can't risk harming the girl. Not as thoroughly as you suggest." He paused. "Just so far and no further."

Knüppeldick scowled. "She ought to be begging us to free her of a bastard grandchild."

"She may have plans to send it away," Sonnenstich replied. "It's no business of ours. We must respect her wishes about permanent harm. A girl who cannot bear is worse than one who does so too early. She's useless."

"This one's useless now if she vomits at the sight of cock."

Sonnenstich chuckled. "We'll just have to make it so she can't see it then, won't we? We'll need some more supplies. Leave her where she is—she's not going anywhere."

The light disappeared once again as the men took the lamps with them and Wendla was left in darkness.

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><p><em>AN: Well, I'm going to be relieved when Melchior finally shows up! Anyone else?_


	3. Chapter 3

_A/N: Hey, wow, you guys really stepped up with the reviews! As promised, here's Melchior. But Wendla's not safe yet. We're getting there, though. There's no graphic depictions of abuse in this chapter, it's all safe to read. Believe me, that made it so much easier to write! _

_One more thing: Melchior does not know yet that Wendla is pregnant, since she never sent him a letter. I haven't decided yet if her captors will succeed in making her miscarry, though I'm leaning toward yes. Can't be too fluffy and ruin my reputation, right? _

_All standard disclaimers apply._

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><p><strong>Kindheit Ende<strong>

"Mail's here."

Melchior eagerly stepped into line with the rest of the young men in his barracks. He hadn't received many letters since being sent to _die Besserungsanstalt_, but once a week when mail was distributed he always felt hopeful. His mother had written to him once, apologizing for her rash decision to send him away and begging his forgiveness. She promised that when the term was over, she would convince his father to bring him home once again—reformatory rules stated that there would be no leaving in the middle of term, regardless of circumstances.

Though he was happy to hear of his mother's change of heart, Melchior was able to admit to himself that it wasn't what he most longed for. No, what he wanted most was a letter from Wendla. But weeks had gone by now with no word, and he was beginning to lose hope. Was she angry with him for leaving, or for something he'd done? Before he was sent away, she had vowed that she loved him. Melchior's feelings had not changed, but he lived in fear every day that hers had. What would he do, he wondered, without her in his life? And not just the raw beauty of what they'd done physically in the hayloft, but the wonder of the emotion that went with it. He loved her dearly, tenderly. But after so much time spent rekindling their friendship and then dancing around the idea of being something more to each other, he didn't know what he would do if her sweet dark eyes had lost that special glow he liked to believe was only for him.

Life at _die Besserungsanstalt_ was not kind, but Melchior endured. It was just one more mark against the adults of the world, he felt. The people who were constantly telling him and the other youths what to do and where to go, how to think and what to feel. He already knew from his extensive reading that much of what they told him was false. God didn't exist. Hard work might get you somewhere in life, but it was by no means assured.

His faith in one thing, though, had been renewed of late. Love. Wendla had revived his faith in love, and for that alone he felt he owed her the world. For the rest—her sweetness, her bright innocence and beauty—he could never get enough. Being without her was the worst part of this awful place. He could stand the mocking from the other boys, could stand the constant physical fights and the harsh treatment from the teachers and other staff, but it was nearly impossible to wake up every morning knowing she was so far away.

At least she was safe from the worst cruelty of the world, Melchior thought. That alone gave him peace. She was with her mother, who was strict and domineering but loved her daughter dearly. Wendla knew how to behave herself and not make waves. Until he could return for her, that was probably the best thing for her to do. While he desperately wanted to share with her his knowledge about the world, wanted her to have the information to make her own decisions and not parrot her mother's, he was content enough for the moment. Soon he would be able to share with her, to spend time with her. For now she was safe, and though she hadn't written to him, at least that thought brought him a little comfort.

But now a letter was placed into his hand. The sight of the childish scrawl across the envelope filled Melchior with rising hope, but he looked closer and his hopes were dashed. It wasn't from Wendla, but her friend Martha. He didn't know Martha all that well, and he wondered why she would be writing to him. Frowning, he waited until the line of boys was dismissed and they were permitted to tear into their mail.

_Dear Melchior_, Martha wrote, _I know you'll probably be surprised to get a letter from me. After all, we've hardly spoken since we were small. But I'm afraid, Melchior, and there isn't anyone else I can tell._

Melchior frowned. What was she afraid of, and why did she think he could possibly help? He was stuck here; even if he wanted to do something he couldn't. It just wasn't possible.

_Wendla admitted to me that she told you of my plight at home. But that's not what I wrote to tell you. I mention it because I feel I have a special "sixth sense," if you will, for when something's not right. My own circumstances have given me the sensitivity to tell when others are in trouble. And, Melchior, I believe Wendla is in trouble right now._

Melchior froze. Wendla in trouble? His head almost couldn't grasp the concept. Fear seized him, along with a colossal surge of anger. If she was in trouble somehow, he knew it wasn't her fault. Someone else was to blame, and while he didn't know who, he was going to make sure it was put right.

_There have been whispers in town since you were sent away. Whispers that she had something to do with it, that it wasn't just because of Moritz's death, God rest his soul. I didn't want to believe it at first, because meddling adults __will__ talk regardless of whether the rumors are true. But earlier today I saw Frau Bergmann hurrying her along through town, and poor Wendla had such a frightened look on her face! My "sixth sense" kicked in, and I just had to follow. I kept far enough back that they didn't notice me, but Melchior, Frau Bergmann took her along the track to Herr Sonnenstich's house. I thought that was strange, but even stranger was when she reappeared in town not long after...without Wendla. I became too worried, and I crept up the track toward your old headmaster's house, keeping out of sight as much as possible. Everything looked all right from the outside, but I'm the first to tell you that appearances can be deceiving. And I was right to worry—Melchior, as I sat and watched the house from the safety of the woods, I heard her scream. I don't know what Herr Sonnenstich is doing, but I can't get the sounds she made out of my head! I didn't know who I could possibly tell, but I needed to tell someone. Then I remembered the rumors in town, and I decided to write to you. If it's true that you were sent away because you did something unspeakable with her, I can only assume you might feel some sort of obligation to her. If so, please, please try to return, Melchior! Please, she needs you. I will be waiting, and will help all I can, but if you know of my situation you'll understand why I can't do this on my own. Wendla needs help, and I can't do it alone. Yours, Martha_.

Horror filled Melchior, and he dropped the short letter to his lap. In his ears, all he could hear were the ringing sounds of Wendla's cries. He'd heard them before when she asked him to hit her and he got carried away, and he never, never wanted to hear a sound like that again. Not from anyone, but especially not from her. Her willingness to forgive him still took his breath away.

But now the prospect of Wendla being hurt—this time by the ruthless headmaster Melchior knew all too well—sent cold slivers of ice down his spine. It chilled his blood. He knew by the creative punishments Herr Sonnenstich doled out to his students that he was a cruel and heartless man. That Wendla was now at his mercy, trapped in his house, filled him with disgust.

And yes, Martha was right. He didn't care about the rumors that might be spreading in town, only glad that they had made her come to the right place with this information—him. There was no possible way he was letting Wendla stay a moment longer in that devil's house. Firm resolve filled him as he folded Martha's letter and put it in his pocket. He was escaping tonight and making his way home. Not to his parents or the town that had shunned him, but to Wendla. With her, he would always be home.

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><p>Late that night, Melchior crept from the reformatory under the cover of darkness. It wasn't as difficult to escape as he'd thought, though he didn't like the way he had to do it. He bribed some of the other boys who were adept at sneaking out at night, but the only thing he had that they wanted was a tintype of Wendla. What they planned to do with it, he didn't want to imagine. But they were adamant about having it, and it was the only way they would agree to show him their method of escape. It wrenched at Melchior's heart to give up the photograph—it was the only likeness he had of Wendla, and she'd managed to slip it to him as a remembrance when she learned he was being sent away.<p>

But he didn't need a token to remember her by anymore, he told himself firmly as he hurried through the night, his dark suit blending with the inky blackness of the sky. He pulled his coat tighter around his body to hide the white sheen of his shirt, though he was not cold in the least. Summer nights were kind in this country, full of soft breezes and the smell of grass. He was thankful for that, at least, though he had miles to walk before he was close to his hometown again and therefore Wendla.

Martha's letter seemed to burn in his pocket, heavy with the solemnity of his purpose. He didn't know Wendla's friend well, but if she said his love was in trouble, he couldn't ignore that. Not with Wendla's safety at stake. So he had to trust that Martha was telling the truth—or, at least, the truth as she saw it. He was learning day by day that there were a myriad of truths in the world, many of them contradictory to each other. Growing up was so confusing! Learning that his parents and teachers had lied to him every day of his life was hard, but not as hard as realizing that they lied to themselves as well. Melchior never wanted to be an adult like the ones he was surrounded with. He didn't want to fall into the trap of maturity if it meant abandoning dreams and ideals in favor of the safety of what was known.

And that was one reason he _had_ to get back to Wendla. While he didn't know what exactly was happening to her, he felt extremely uneasy at the thought of her at Herr Sonnenstich's mercy. The headmaster was a cruel, unyielding man. What he said was law, as far as he was concerned, and he ruled his students with a rod and an iron fist. Melchior was honestly a little relieved that the girls were not permitted to attend school with the village boys. Not because he thought they deserved the sub-par education they received just for being female, but because they weren't subjected to the harsh discipline of Herr Sonnenstich and his under-teachers. He winced at the thought of Sonnenstich's stout cane cracking across the back or side of one of the girls, as he and his fellows had so often been struck. Melchior told Wendla the truth when he declared that he didn't think anyone was the better for being beaten. When and if he ever had his own children, he vowed never to strike them, nor send them to a teacher who would.

And Wendla herself was such an innocent. He shuddered at the thought of her in Herr Sonnenstich's house. What could the headmaster possibly want with her? It made no sense. He'd always said repeatedly that he thought teaching girls was a waste of time, so he couldn't possibly be tutoring her. What, then? What could he possibly be doing? Melchior didn't know, but he planned to put a stop to it, whatever it was. He didn't trust Herr Sonnenstich or his motives, and from the sound of Martha's letter, Wendla hadn't had a choice in being left with him.

Miles to go, Melchior thought—not with weariness, but with impatience. He wished desperately for a horse or a bicycle—anything to get him to Wendla faster. If a wagon or cart happened upon him, he'd happily beg a ride. But it was deep into the darkest hours of the night, and nobody else was on the road. He hurried as fast as he could, but he knew it would be well into the next day before he reached his destination. Worry made anxious sweat bead on his forehead and trickle between his shoulder blades. He didn't know how long it had taken for Martha's letter to reach him. Even if she sent it the same day she saw Wendla taken to Herr Sonnenstich's house, there was a big possibility that that had been several days ago, at least. It would take him hours to reach town, and just as he'd had to wait for darkness to escape from _die Besserungsanstalt_, he would have to wait for night again to rescue Wendla from the headmaster's house. If she was still there, he reminded himself. A few days was a long time. Anything could have happened to her. Worry made his heart race, and he picked up his pace. No, he told himself furiously. No, he wasn't going to let himself think the worst. He just couldn't. Imagining terrible scenarios wasn't helping him get to Wendla any faster.

To try to distract himself, Melchior pushed his mind into the future. He tried to think about what they would do once he managed to spirit Wendla away from Herr Sonnenstich. Berlin, he decided abruptly. His aunt Liesl, his mother's younger sister, had a house there, and she was summering in Paris at the moment. They could go to Berlin, just the two of them, and from there they could decide what to do. Liesl likely wouldn't be home until October. By then, surely they would have a plan.

Melchior smiled a little as he imagined living in the big city with Wendla. Nobody would know where they were. Nobody would be able to find them. They could blend into the crowds—start a new life. Maybe later they also could travel, as his aunt did. But the best part would be having Wendla to himself, without the constant worry about being discovered. They could make their own way and build their own life—together, just the two of them. They could learn from each other how to be a new breed of young adult, one that didn't mindlessly follow culture and tradition without questioning it first. They would be free to embrace all that was good and real, and discard the meaningless, hypocritical trappings of the stifling society in which they'd been brought up.

But first, first he had to fetch Wendla away from the headmaster.

Melchior frowned in thought. He would be exhausted by the time he found her, and he knew that. He planned to walk all night with no sleep, and sometime the next day he would arrive at the village. Then he would have time to prepare a plan—talk to Martha if he could find her—and ready himself to break Wendla out of Herr Sonnenstich's house. That meant two full days and nights without sleep. He would need to rest afterward, and he knew that. Possibly Wendla would, too. He had no idea what sort of ordeal she was being forced to endure as he hurried toward her, but whatever it was, he doubted it was good. It was possible they'd need some time to recuperate before attempting the several-days' journey to Berlin. But his parents and the rest of the town still thought he was at _die Besserungsanstalt_, and Wendla's mother would assume her daughter was still with the headmaster. So they'd have to hide. But where?

The artists' colony was the obvious first choice. The bohemians would take them in and shelter them, as they'd sheltered Ilse when she ran away. But they were a mercurial lot, and Melchior did not entirely trust them. They were loud and boisterous, and spent a great deal of their time drinking, brawling, and engaging in activities he didn't entirely understand. While he did not judge them for the way they chose to live, he didn't think it would be a good place to steal some much-needed rest for himself and Wendla. But where else could they go?

Instantly the image of his family's hayloft appeared in his mind. He'd often hid there as a young child—it was a quiet place above the barn, filled with the rich, familiar smells of wood and hay. His parents had never discovered his hiding spot, either. Only Wendla. When she found him that fateful afternoon, the sky darkening with a summer thunderstorm, he hadn't known what to think. He was terribly confused and wracked with guilt over his loss of control with her, but she'd held him to her breast and whispered that no apology was necessary, that the entire encounter with the switch had been her fault. Her tenderness and the sweet, soft scent of her had overwhelmed him. That had been the beginning of the most intense and wonderful experience of his life, and it had happened in his special place, his secret spot for thinking.

Yes, he thought now, inhaling a deep breath of the soft night air. Yes, he would bring Wendla back to his hayloft and they could stay there for a day or two—enough time to sleep a little, to rest and prepare for the journey to Berlin. He could sneak into his parents' house for food, blankets, and whatever else they might need. He felt no compunctions about taking a few things from them after all that had happened. Parents were supposed to guide and support children, he thought angrily as he kicked a stone in the road. Not abandon them to a reformatory for the sin of thinking and feeling. The sin of being _alive_. While his mother's letter had soothed his anger slightly, it had not assuaged it. He was still deeply upset at both his parents—his father more than his mother, yes, but both of them nonetheless. They had forsaken him, and for what? For thinking. For _loving_. He didn't know if he'd ever be able to forgive them for what he considered a terrible betrayal. Why raise him to read and analyze and puzzle out his own answers to life's questions, then punish him for doing so? They hadn't raised a fuss when he declared he was no longer going to church. They hadn't protested his friendship with Moritz, despite the town's low opinion of the other boy. So why was what he'd done with Wendla, and the essay he'd written to Moritz, treated so differently? Why did the topic of sex turn all of the adults of the world into terrorizing totalitarians?

Melchior didn't have the answers to these questions, but there was one thing he knew above all others. He was going to find Wendla and take her away from all of this Together they would learn from each other. Together they would find a better life.

* * *

><p>Cornering Martha was harder than Melchior anticipated. He hadn't realized how difficult it was to get one girl away from the others. They were always together, always monitored by one adult or another—a parent, a teacher, a member of the clergy. He wondered if things had been so strict before the town found out what he had done with Wendla. Were they trying to protect their girls even more now? Or had Wendla always been the exception to the rule, as innocent and fairy-like as she was? Was she permitted more freedom to sit under a tree and dream by herself, simply because she was fatherless and nobody expected her to ever do something untoward? Melchior didn't know. He wished now that he had paid more attention, but he honestly hadn't been prepared for the rush of emotion, the rush of <em>wanting<em>, that filled him when he was around her. It had never happened to him before. He hadn't been stalking her, hadn't been watching her, intent on getting her alone. He honestly hadn't realized how structured, how repressed, the lives of the village girls were.

Finally, though, he found Martha alone. She was at church with the rest of the girls after school, and he was hidden in the woods near the building, watching the door and waiting for a chance to catch her. She left to use the outhouse, and as she was heading back toward the church he called to her.

Her eyes went wide when she saw him lurking in the trees, and she glanced warily at the closed door of the church building before stepping hesitantly toward him. "Melchior?" she said. "Melchior Gabor, is that you?"

"It is," he said, relief sweeping through him. "I got your letter, and I can't thank you enough. Please, what's happened?"

"I don't know," she said swiftly, taking another step toward him even as she watched the church with fear in her eyes. "I don't have much time; they'll miss me soon."

"Please," he begged. "Tell me what you know."

"No one has seen Wendla since I followed her to Herr Sonnenstich's house," she said worriedly. "It's been three days, Melchior, and I'm so scared for her!"

Three days. Melchior felt his stomach sink. He was afraid of this. "What does her mother say about her whereabouts?"

"That she's ill—sick with anemia and tucked in bed," Martha said. "I can see the lie in her eyes. Even if I hadn't seen her drag Wendla to the headmaster's house I would know she was lying. She knows something. Something she won't tell." Martha's face darkened. "I know about secrets. I can see when people are keeping them."

"I'm sure you can," Melchior said tightly. He was sorry for the girl, truly he was. But Wendla was his priority right now. He _needed_ her to be okay.

"I'm glad you think so," she said, and he could hear that she was choosing her words carefully, gauging how much to tell him. "Because I think your mother is hiding something, too."

Melchior froze. His mother? What would his mother possibly be hiding? The whole town—the adults, anyway—knew about the essay he wrote for Moritz, and his tryst with Wendla. They knew he had been sent to reform school. What else would she possibly want to hide?

"You know that girls and women don't spend much time around the men, so I don't know if your father knows," Martha said quickly, rushing her words now as she glanced at the church again. "But your mother knows something, something secret. I don't know if it's about Wendla or not. I don't know if she knows where Frau Bergmann took Wendla. But she's hiding something, something that's eating away at her."

Melchior nodded grimly. He had no idea what this secret of his mother's was, but he believed Martha that she had one. After all that had happened, he didn't put anything past his parents anymore.

"You said you would try to help me," he said quickly, knowing how nervous the girl was to get back to church before she was missed. "What can you do?"

"I don't know." Martha wrung her thin hands together. "I'm so afraid, Melchior, and they're always watching us now. It's like they think we'll all go and do something horrible now that Moritz is dead and you've been sent away." She paused and lifted her eyes hesitantly to his for the first time in their conversation. "Is...is it true that you...did something with her? Something the grownups don't like?"

He let out a long breath. "Yes," he said finally, "I did."

"What did you do?"

Melchior weighed the options. He hated lies and didn't want to tell one, but he didn't know if this girl would understand the truth if he told it, and he didn't have time for a long, involved explanation. "I lay with her," he said finally, opting for the simple truth and hoping she wouldn't demand further details. "I lay with her as man and woman."

He didn't necessarily expect Martha to understand, though he had purposefully used Biblical language rather than the biological terms he used with Moritz. But the girl's eyes opened wide and she paled slightly. "Really?" she whispered, and she took an involuntary step back from him.

"I didn't force her," Melchior said quickly. "She was willing. It was beautiful, Martha." He suddenly stopped talking and frowned. "How is it that you know what I'm talking about? Wendla didn't. Even Moritz didn't."

Her face flamed red and she dropped her eyes. "It doesn't matter," she stammered, backing away. "I need to go. I've done all I can. I truly hope you can help her, Melchior."

He let her go, staring after her as she disappeared back into the imposing edifice of the village church. Her secrets were hers to keep and he wouldn't pry. He was too grateful to her for bringing him here, for warning him that Wendla was in trouble.

The thought of Wendla brought his mind instantly back to the subject at hand. He fingered the knife in his pocket, his young face settling into firm intent. The afternoon was waning toward another long, golden summer evening. He had time to prepare the hayloft before his father returned home to do the evening chores, and then he would hustle to Herr Sonnenstich's house. Soon he would see Wendla again. Soon she would be safe.

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><p><em>Thoughts or opinions? Reviews = faster updates, and the sooner I update, the sooner Wendla gets out of that hellhole with the evil teachers. Mwah!<em>


	4. Chapter 4

_A/N: Hey, guys. I didn't want to do it. Believe me, it took a lot to get this chapter out, because I so wanted to just get to Wendla's rescue already. But we already know she's been locked up longer than just the one day we already heard about, so I felt that we really needed one more chapter to bring both Melchior and Wendla to the same point: the night of her rescue. **Absolutely none of this chapter is safe to read.** Not a word of it. If you've been skipping the parts after my warnings, just skip this whole chapter. The next chapter will start the rescue. Seriously. You've been warned._

_To make up for the utter horror-fest that is this fic, I wrote a fluffy St. Berry oneshot for anyone who follows both SA and Glee. It's up as the newest chapter in my oneshot collection called "Inevitability." I feel bad dragging people down into angst-ville with me, so there you go!_

_All standard disclaimers apply._

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><p><strong>Kindheit Ende<strong>

"Here we are."

Wendla felt hard hands grab her shaking body. She flinched, pain erupting through every inch of herself as they hoisted her unceremoniously to her feet. An unfamiliar cramping sensation had settled in her abdomen, and she didn't know if it was because of that awful kick or not. She hadn't been entirely paying attention to their previous talk, and didn't really know why she'd been kicked unless it was just more punishment for vomiting. But she'd really had no control over that particular bodily function—it had happened swiftly, and she'd had no time to prepare or prevent it. Besides, her mother had grudgingly told her that a woman carrying a child often felt sick to the stomach—she really couldn't help it. But it seemed that she was being punished for it anyway.

"Here we are," Sonnenstich said again. "If we can't have fun with that pretty mouth, we'll have to move on to the next lesson."

Wendla shook as they forced her to her knees. Her feet really weren't up to the challenge of holding her steady, so she was thankful they didn't attempt to make her stand. Even kneeling upright was hard, and she clutched her arms around her torso in a fruitless attempt at comfort.

"Let's see how much you've already learned, little girl," Herr Sonnenstich said. He stood in front of her, fully dressed, and folded his arms firmly. "What is your name, child?"

"Wendla Bergmann, _mein Herr_," she whispered, careful to remember the honorific. She wanted to avoid as much punishment as possible—she didn't honestly know how much more her body could take.

"Again, how old are you?"

"Fifteen, _mein Herr_."

"And, little Wendla, since we have you answering questions so politely, I have another for you. What do you think you are—a woman or a child? Answer me quickly."

"A child, _mein Herr_," she whispered, her gaze locked on his feet before her. A thin thread of hope—something she'd almost forgotten how to feel—bubbled up through the pain. If she could prove to him that she really did think she was a child and not an adult, would he let her go? Would the pain finally end?

"That's right, little girl. You are a child—a child who must learn to obey, which is why you've been sent to me. To show me the truth of your education, however, you must do something." He paused and took three long steps backward, away from her. "You will crawl to me, child, on your hands and knees. When you reach me, you will turn around and offer that pretty backside of yours. You will tell me that you've been a naughty girl, dallying with young Herr Gabor, and ask me to please spank you thoroughly as punishment." He paused. "Only when you can do that to my satisfaction will you have learned your lesson. I'm giving you your first opportunity right now. Will you crawl to me and beg for my hand?"

Wendla crumbled, slumping to the floor again. Hot tears flowed from her eyes as she shook her head slowly, muffling her sobs against the dirt floor. He was serious and she knew it, but she couldn't obey. She just couldn't. It was too much to ask. Why did she have to prove that she thought of herself as a child, when she'd never even entertained the notion of becoming a woman? Not yet, anyway. She was far too young. One afternoon with Melchior hadn't changed how she thought of herself. And she just couldn't do what Herr Sonnenstich was ordering—she absolutely couldn't. He meant not only to punish, but to break her completely. He meant to strip her of everything that made her human, turn her into nothing but a talking doll or obedient animal. She shook her head again slowly. "No," she whispered, knowing the punishment for disobedience was going to be bad. But she couldn't crawl over to him and ask—beg, even—for pain. That was demanding far too much of her. Her body couldn't take any more. Her ass literally felt like the skin would split open at any moment, so swollen and tight and throbbing. He couldn't possibly expect her to do what he was ordering.

A cold chuckle escaped the headmaster's throat, and Wendla winced at the foreboding sound. "It's all right, pretty girl," he said, though his voice held no reassurance. "I didn't expect you to obey this first time. You still think you have a choice in any of this. You still think someone—your mama, maybe—is going to save you. Well, child, as the days go on, you'll learn how very wrong that hope is. Your only salvation is through me. The only way you are ever getting out of here is to crawl and beg for punishment. I can see that, though you are a sweet little fairy child, you have a strong will. This will be a hard lesson for you, but you must learn it. Resistance will only end in more pain."

Wendla closed her eyes, thick tears dropping from her clenched eyelids. She felt the two younger teachers take an arm and a leg each and haul her to a different part of the room.

"Now that that's over with," Sonnenstich said, "we have a little surprise for you." He stroked a hand down her bare back as she huddled on the ground, ending with a sharp tap to her backside. "That poor ass of yours is bruised a solid purple—I'm not surprised you were unwilling to ask me to spank it again. We were planning to give it a break today by using your mouth. If you're kneeling to suck cock, after all, you're not laying on your back and putting pressure on your bottom. Since you've demonstrated your inability to handle fellatio, we're moving on to something else." He chuckled and tapped her ass again. "But don't worry. We're still not putting you on your back right now."

Wendla felt the coarse rope loop around her wrists, and they were tied quickly to two rings hammered into the dirt floor about shoulder-width apart. She was able to plant her palms against the floor in this position, but it was cold comfort. The two younger teachers grabbed her arms and tied her elbows down, so her forearms were pressed against the floor. They then took her knees and pushed them up under her, raising her ass into the air. She shook with fear as they tied her ankles and knees in place. The odd angle of her arms forced her back into an unnatural position, her breasts pressed against the ground and her hips canted up and pack in an awkward arch. Her knees and ankles were planted wide apart, leaving her open and vulnerable. What was worse, in this position she couldn't see anything that was going on. There was no way to anticipate and therefore brace for whatever they were going to do.

"Just relax, little girl," Sonnenstich said, running his hands over her exposed buttocks. She whimpered, unable to bite the sound back down. Each touch on her abused flesh was like fire, and not the good kind Melchior had kindled in her blood. This was excruciating and humiliating, and it could never feel anything but awful. "Oh, but we're going to have fun today. Remember I told you before that you had another hole we might want to pay attention to?" He chuckled, and she felt his hand slide from her bruised bottom to the slit between her legs. They'd ejaculated in her multiple times earlier this morning, and she could feel it leaking out of her. He gathered some of the wetness against his fingers and moved his hand back and up. She jerked as she felt him rub against the...other area they'd discussed, her eyes opening wide and a frantic noise erupting from her mouth.

"No!" she begged, struggling against her bonds as he rubbed the sticky fluid around.

"Yes," he said calmly. "You won't take it in the mouth, so this is the next step. Your vagina is so small and tight that I can't even begin to imagine how this little hole will feel." He pressed forward with one finger, and she screeched in pain as it entered. Melchior hadn't done anything like this, and she hated it now as she felt the humiliating invasion of her body. This wasn't right, her head screamed at her. It wasn't natural or normal. Maybe what they had done to her before had hurt, but this confused her as well.

"Don't clench against me, my pretty," Sonnenstich said, chuckling a little as he forced his finger in deeper. "That will only make it worse for you." He stopped moving, and she felt his other hand move something cold between her legs. She flinched at the hard, cold, alien feeling as he rubbed something in the sticky wetness leaking from her.

"Vulcanized rubber is a wonderful invention," he said. He withdrew his finger, but she didn't have time to sigh in relief as she felt the cold thing press abruptly against her smaller hole. "In case you're wondering, that's what this is." He pushed against her unyielding muscles, and she felt the invasion begin anew. She was crying fully as he forced the hard object inside her, then patted her bruised backside. "Your ass is too tight to fuck properly right now—without a good stretching, we'd be moving dangerously close to the line of permanent damage your mama told us not to cross. The rubber plug may not be terribly comfortable, but it's in your best interest at the moment." He kissed the uncomfortable arch of her back. "But don't worry. We can still have some fun with your other hole while we wait."

She heard the sound of rustling fabric, and then his cock was pressed against her vagina, demanding entrance. She whimpered, already feeling stretched to bursting by the painful piece of rubber he'd forced inside her ass. Surely he didn't mean to use both...holes...at the same time? She tried to no avail to jerk away from her bonds, but all she received for her trouble was laughter from the men.

"Yes, child," Sonnenstich said, "this will no doubt hurt quite a bit. For you. But you brought it on yourself by not submitting, by not asking me like a good little girl to spank you. This is what happens when you don't obey."

Without another word, he pushed forward. She screamed at the burning, stretching pain, feeling like she would rip apart at any moment as he forced himself inside her. He grabbed the end of the plug and rolled it around, playing with it as he thrust slowly in and out of her abused body, as if he didn't want her to forget the other thing currently filling her. Not that she could—she cried and writhed, unable to relax her muscles and stop clenching despite his assertions that it only made things worse. It was an involuntary reaction; there was nothing she could do to stop it. She bawled, her tears soaking into the dirt floor and leaving little splotches of mud against her face. The smell of soil and unwashed men was in her nose, and she thought for a moment that she was going to vomit again.

But Sonnenstich's sudden fierce thrust that signaled his orgasm pushed her pain to new heights, and she wasn't able to concentrate on her cramping stomach any more as the men switched positions, one of the others taking a turn. She didn't even know which it was—she couldn't see anything in this position. She could only feel the difference as this thicker cock forced its way inside her, the thrusts rougher and faster. This man did not play with the plug, but he grabbed and wrenched at her hips in a way that pulled her bound limbs and made the coarse rope scrape painfully against her skin. She closed her eyes, still crying, and surrendered to despair.

* * *

><p>Hours later—Wendla had lost track of how long—she felt someone grasp the plug and pull it unceremoniously from her body. The rush of pain at the movement was followed by an intense throbbing sensation.<p>

"Is she ready yet?" one of the younger teachers asked, his voice tight with impatience.

"It will take a day or two," Sonnenstich said, lightly reprimanding. "Patience is a virtue." He rubbed the abused flesh, then forced his finger abruptly inside. "She's still too tight to fuck here. But not too tight to use the machine. It may speed things along."

The younger teacher sounded gleeful. "I've never seen the machine in action," he said. "I can't wait."

"Yes," Sonnenstich said, and Wendla could barely feel as hands began to untie her. Her body ached from being tied in the same position for far too long, but they didn't take the time to let her adjust. They grabbed her and hoisted her back onto the large table int he middle of the room. "Steam power, steel, and vulcanized rubber are the wave of the future. I must say I'm quite proud of my little device."

Wendla blinked in the dim light of the basement, once again able to see at least a little bit of what was going on. They secured her wrists above her head again, and she shuddered as one of the younger teachers grabbed her breasts and gave them a squeeze. "Today was fun," he said, rubbing her nipples until they hardened in the cold air. "But I missed seeing these pretty breasts."

"They'll be on display for days yet," Sonnenstich said calmly. "Never fear. Bring her over here."

Wendla quivered as they pushed her table toward a wall. She couldn't see well enough in the dim basement to know what was going on, but she knew she wasn't going to like any of it. "In fact, there's no reason you can't clamp them for now," he added, motioning toward a smaller table. "They'll be extra sensitive for the next session."

"Thank you, _mein Herr_," the other man breathed, and he was away and back at Wendla's side in an instant. She almost didn't feel her legs being forced apart and tied down to the table legs once more, too afraid of what else was going on. "See these?" he said to her, holding up something metal linked by a short chain. "You might not like them, but I certainly do."

He rubbed and pinched her near nipple again until it stood out, stiff and unhappy, in the cold basement air. She yelped as he took one side of the chain and settled the clamp firmly on her nipple. It was like being bitten except it didn't stop—the pain continued, lancing through the sensitive bud and sweeping across her entire body. He applied the second clamp, then gave a sharp tug at the connecting chain, which made her scream.

"Keep those on while she's hooked up to the machine, and I'll guarantee that she's more sensitive tomorrow," Sonnenstich said. "Knochenbruch, go into the other room and start the engine." He clapped his hands. "Now, Wendla, you'll get to experience the future of this sort of education. Don't you feel lucky?" He laughed. "In the room directly behind this wall, there is a small steam engine, much like those used to run a thresher or harvester. It controls two pistoning arms, which feed through these two small holes in the wall."

He pointed, but Wendla didn't want to look. The holes were positioned just at the height of the table, and she really didn't want to know what was going on. Sonnenstich reached into the lower hole and pulled out a thin rubber wand attached to a metal arm. "This one is for the hole that needs to be stretched," he said, and he calmly moved the apparatus into place and shoved it unceremoniously into her ass. She screamed—she had no idea if this rubber thing was any bigger or smaller than the one he'd been using before, but it didn't feel any better. "And this one," he said, ignoring her outburst, "is just for fun." He pulled another metal arm out of the other hole. The rubber wand attached to this one was bigger, and Wendla shuddered even before he forced it into her body. Once again she was stuffed full—too full—and she felt like she was about to break apart.

"When the engine gets going, the pistons will pump and thrust, just as a human man," Sonnenstich said. "Except, unlike a man, these can keep going indefinitely." He chuckled. "I have no doubt you'll have quite the interesting night while we sleep."

A whirring noise from behind the wall caught her attention just before the thick rubber wands inside her began to vibrate. She shivered in fear, then in pain as they began to pump slowly, just as he'd said.

"We'll leave you like this overnight," Sonnenstich continued. "The rubber in that sweet little ass of yours is smaller than any of us, and it will help you stretch so that we can fuck you properly in the morning."

"No, please!" she gasped, fighting against the restraints holding her to the table. "Please, please don't do this!"

"This is your punishment," Sonnenstich said coldly. "You must learn, little girl. You wanted to act like an adult, and this is the consequence for doing so."

"No!" she said, and though her body was in intense pain, she felt a thread of resistance, of anger, well up inside her. She couldn't stop them from doing these terrible things to her body, but she was more afraid of their attempts to break her mind and spirit. She couldn't let that happen; she just couldn't. Without really thinking about the consequences, she stared up at Herr Sonnenstich and spat squarely in his face.

Silence reigned for a long moment. He wiped his cheek with his sleeve, then reached out a calm hand and tugged hard at the chain connecting the clamps. She bit back her squeal of pain, unwilling to let him know how much it really hurt.

"Still think you can deny me, little girl?" he said, shaking his head slowly. "I pity you, Wendla. The more you fight, the harder this will be. Not for me, but for you. You've just earned a punishment in addition to your lesson."

Sonnenstich reached out a hand, and Knochenbruch passed him some long strips of coarse burlap. He tied one tightly over her eyes so she couldn't see, and forced another one in her mouth, tying it behind her head. "You will learn," he said. "Eventually, you will learn."

Wendla heard them ascend the stairs for the night, locking the basement door behind them, but she couldn't see as the lamps disappeared and, once again, the darkness closed in.

* * *

><p><em>Do you know how weird it is to write an AN like this? Well, I actually did my historical research. The first vibrator was invented by an American (of course) in 1869 (of course) and it was, in fact, steam powered. They had electric models prior to 1891, but since rural Germany was kind of a backwater until after WWI I didn't know how realistic giving this little town electricity would be. Vulcanized rubber was invented in the mid-1800's (the specific date is still open to debate) and was almost immediately used to make sex toys (among other things). So while this little horror-fest is kind of a crack-fic, at least historically it's nominally believable._

_Reviews = Melchior!_


	5. Chapter 5

_A/N: Y'all have been absolutely pwning the reviews, so as promised, here's Melchior! We're not nearly finished, though; they've got a looong way to go before their HEA. I do promise there will be one, however. I don't do angsty endings._

_All standard disclaimers apply._

* * *

><p><strong>Kindheit Ende<strong>

Nightfall. Melchior was out of his mind with impatience. For several hours now he'd been hearing a strange mechanical whirring noise from inside Herr Sonnenstich's house, and he had no idea what could be making that sort of sound. He was convinced it did not bode well, but he didn't know what to do about it.

It had taken quite some time for all the lights on the main floor to go out and the teachers to head upstairs—presumably to bed, he could only hope. Melchior didn't have a clear plan for getting Wendla free, but desperation to do so welled inside of him until he could barely stand keeping still and quiet in the woods around the house. Just a little longer, he told himself. He had to give them time to fall asleep, and then he would go in and rescue her.

But how? He'd already circled the house several times and there was no cellar door he could use to easily conceal his entry. He doubted Herr Sonnenstich would leave the main door unlocked under the circumstances. Surely Wendla would try to escape if she were able?

Melchior bit back an irritated sigh. The dim lamplight gleaming from the upstairs windows had faded now, and there was no use in wasting time outside. A cellar door wasn't going to magically appear. He chose the back door, hoping there was a slight chance it might have a weaker lock and therefore be easier to open.

It was unlocked.

He frowned as he pushed the door open and peered into the dark house. The smell of burnt bread and greasy sausage lingered in the air, but there was no sound of wakefulness. He hoped that meant all occupants of the house—with the possible exception of Wendla—were asleep. The only noise was the strange whirring sound, louder now that he was inside.

He stepped cautiously into the house, keeping to the edges of the room where the floorboards would make less noise. As silently as possible, he crept along the wall and then stopped and listened again. Where would Wendla be? He didn't know, and every moment he spent in this dangerous house made his anxiety level rise. He had to find her and get her out of here. Nothing else could ever be as important as that.

Finally content that he was alone in the room, Melchior pulled his dark lantern out from under his coat. The cheap tin was hammered through with small holes, casting a meager, dim glow a few feet in each direction. The tallow candle inside jumped and quivered with each slow movement he made, but he didn't dare bring a real lamp with him. Even this pitiful amount of light was risky. But he needed it in order to find Wendla.

Carefully he picked his way across the big room that served as kitchen, dining, and living area. There were two shut doors on the far side, and he aimed for them. One opened easily when he tested the knob, and behind it a flight of stairs led upward. This was the way to the bedrooms, then. He closed the door without a sound, doubting Wendla would be up there. If he couldn't find her anywhere else, he would search the upper level. But he suspected the dangerous task of going upstairs wasn't necessary, and he didn't want to risk Sonnenstich waking up. Instead, he tried the other door.

It was locked.

A thin smile broke across Melchior's face as he placed his lantern carefully on the floor and drew his knife out of his pocket. In a farmhouse like this, there wasn't much to lock up. His aunt Liesl had silver and jewelry and knickknacks all around her fine house in Berlin, but this wasn't that sort of house. There was no reason to leave the back door unlocked but then lock a door inside. This lock was to keep someone in, not burglars out.

He worried the lock with his knife until he heard a soft click—all the boys in town had learned young how to jimmy locks with some stiff wire or the tip of a sharp knife, and now he was thanking a deity he didn't believe in for this small bit of childhood mischief. He opened the door and picked up the lantern again, keeping his knife in his other hand just in case.

Cold, damp air wafted up a set of stairs, and Melchior knew he'd found the basement. He started down the rickety wooden steps grimly, not sure what he would find at the bottom but hoping Wendla would be there. The strange whirring noise only got louder the further he went.

As the cellar appeared before him, Melchior's eyes opened wide. This place was unreal. Instead of bins of potatoes and apples and crocks of butter, there were strange wood and metal implements scattered around the large dirt-floored room. In various locations there were chains and rings hammered into the floor or dangling from the low ceiling, like some medieval dungeon. He shuddered in the chill, dank air and raised his lantern to expose more of the black pit of a room.

No. God, no.

Elation and terror struck him at the same time as a still form strapped to a sturdy wooden table came into view. His hand faltered in shock and he dropped the dark lantern. It hit the dirt floor with a sullen noise, and the candle went out.

Melchior didn't bother scrabbling on the ground to find the lantern or digging in his pocket for a match. He stumbled quickly in the direction of the table, the strange whirring sound heavy and grotesque in his head. The basement was utterly black without his lantern, but the shadowy vision of a girl's body was etched into his brain and he moved toward it blindly, hands outstretched. His mind was screaming at him to hurry up, but also to refute what it already knew to be true. Just that one glimpse in the poor light had been enough—he knew it was Wendla. He'd studied her tintype, knew her flesh with both his eyes and his hands, and there was no way he could mistake her for anyone else, even in the poor light. He had no idea what was going on, but he bumped into a sharp corner of the table and then his hands were fumbling, tangling in her dark hair, searching desperately for...he didn't know what. Something. Anything.

Her skin was damp and unnaturally warm when his hands found it, but he knew that velvet softness too well to lie to himself—this was Wendla. A strangled cry he had no control over leaked from his clenched mouth as he traced his hands up her arms, searching for the restraints that must be holding her in place. A faint shudder flickered through her body at his noise. Pure rage the like of which he'd never before known kindled under his ribs, close to his heart.

His blind hands found her wrists, bound to the table above her head with stiff leather. As he wrenched at the buckles he felt an answering tremor shake his own body. "Wendla," he said, the first word to escape him since leaving Martha hours ago. "Wendla, please." He didn't even know exactly what he was begging for as he released her wrists from the restraints. He rubbed the soft flesh carefully, feeling the raw, rough scratch of scraped skin. She shuddered again as he tenderly raised one arm, moving the limb as carefully as possible to avoid hurting her stiff shoulder joint. She whimpered, and the sound—so broken, so afraid—bit deeply into his heart.

"Wendla," he said, not even recognizing his own unsteady voice, "Wendla, it's me. Melchior." He lay her arm carefully by her side and repeated the action with the other. "_Liebling_, can you hear me?"

She did not seem entirely capable of responding. Melchior swept his hand through her tangled hair, surprised to encounter the rough, brittle scrape of burlap. He traced the swatch of fabric, and his anger bubbled higher when he realized she'd been both blindfolded and gagged. Really, that was just needlessly cruel—there was no light down here anyway, and any noise she might make couldn't possibly carry all the way to the sleeping men upstairs. He grit his teeth and worked at the knots, but they were tangled in the long strands of her lush hair and he didn't want to hurt her. He fished his knife out of his pocket instead, moving the blade carefully so as not to nick her skin as he sliced through the dirty material.

"Wendla," he tried again, throwing both pieces of burlap to the ground, "I have no light, _liebling_. I have to feel for your other restraints. I know you probably won't like it, but we need to get you out of here." He paused. "Can you hear me? Wendla?"

She did not respond, and fear began to win the fight over fury within him. He traced his hand down her naked side, feeling the unnatural angle of her splayed thigh and following the curve of her trembling leg until he found the coarse rope binding her tightly to the table. He bit the inside of his cheek so hard he drew blood as he fumbled with the knots. The rope was tied too tightly—he didn't dare use his knife.

Melchior had seen in that brief glimpse before his lantern dropped that she was naked, and it didn't take a genius to figure out at least the general reason why. She hadn't been enthusiastic at first when they'd made love in the hayloft—she was justifiably nervous, and had taken a little convincing. So he had no doubt that, whatever was going on here, she was not a willing participant. The thought of a man—a teacher, no less—forcing a girl to please him absolutely turned his stomach. He couldn't even comprehend how that must feel. Even imagining what these past few days must have been like for her made him see red. She was such a sweet, trusting, passionate girl, and what they'd shared together in the hayloft had been absolutely beautiful. But if she had continued to say no, he wouldn't have forced the issue. He couldn't even contemplate doing such a thing. Not to anyone, but especially not to her.

Finally he managed to free one of her legs. It hung limply from the table as the rope dropped, and he heard another pain-filled whimper. Instantly he returned to her head, grasping her hand tightly in his and resting his forehead against hers.

"What is it, dear heart?" he asked, feeling her short, sharp breaths against his cheek. She was obviously in a great deal of pain. Her body was moving oddly, too—almost vibrating. He supposed it could possibly be a byproduct of the way she was panting. He cupped her cheek in his free hand. "Wendla, wake up and stay with me. It's Melchior. I'm here. I'm here."

She whimpered again, the sound igniting pain through his entire body. "Out," she whispered finally. There was a wild, panicked note to her words. "Get it out."

Melchior frowned. She was obviously feverish—the damp heat of her skin told him that much. Was she so sick that she wasn't speaking clearly? "Get what out, _liebling_?"

"Out," she begged, and he felt the touch of tears against his fingertips as he swept them over her cheek.

"Okay," he said, unable to deny her, though he still had no idea what was going on. "All right. Just hold tight." He kissed her forehead, needing the reassurance of touch, before stumbling to the other side of the table. Her arm was already free, and he followed the line of her second leg to the knots of coarse rope he already knew would be waiting.

The strange whirring sound was incredibly loud, and Melchior still had no idea what it was. He brushed against the wooden wall that Wendla's table was touching, and he froze in surprise. The wall was actually vibrating with a very mechanical sort of feel. Cautiously, he placed a palm on the wall.

Other than the odd vibrations, it felt like a normal wood plank wall. He swept his hand down, expecting to find the edge of the table, but instead his fingers encountered a rough hole cut in the wood. Upon further exploration, he discovered the grisly reason behind the mechanical tremors that buzzed through the wall and Wendla.

Every curse and oath he'd learned from the other boys at reform school burst from his throat as he grasped a metal arm, shoving it back through the hole in the wall and away from Wendla. She let out a hoarse noise that might have been an attempt at a scream, and her body jerked. As she moved he found the second metal arm, and he swore again. Trying to be more careful this time, he pulled it firmly from her body and grasped her hips, moving her further up the table and away from the machine. The machine whined as he forced the pistons to move against the way it was built, but the fact that he was breaking what was probably a very expensive piece of equipment didn't even register to Melchior. The hot, metallic smell of blood hit him as he moved Wendla, and he bit out another litany of curses.

She was crying softly now, and she fisted her near hand weakly in his shirt sleeve. He ran his free hand up her side again, making sure there was nothing else holding her to the table. The scent of blood was doing something awful to his insides—he didn't even know if rage could describe the pure, raw fury he felt. His arm brushed by her soft breast, invisible in the blackness, and she jerked away from the light touch.

"Does that hurt, _liebling_?" he asked, willing the anger out of his voice. None of it was directed at her, and he desperately didn't want to scare her. She was probably terrified already.

"Off," she begged, and her hand left his arm. He didn't know what she wanted, but he followed her hand with his own. She started fumbling clumsily at her chest, and he slipped his fingers around hers, meaning to still her movements. The moment he touched metal, he understood. Not completely—none of his books had ever described such a thing. But he knew instantly when he touched the clamp that it was meant to cause pain, and he carefully removed it, then followed the chain to the other side and did the same.

A dry, raspy squeal left her mouth, and he knew that it must have hurt despite his attempt to be gentle. He found her hand in the darkness again and squeezed it.

"Wendla," he said, "we need to get you out of here." He traced hesitant fingers down her hot cheek, feeling the damp trails of tears. "It's Melchior," he repeated. "Do you know me?"

She coughed weakly and moved their clasped hands to her mouth. Her lips were dry and rough, as he'd already learned when he cut the burlap gag and pulled it away from her skin, but nonetheless her kiss against his clasped hand was the most beautiful thing he'd ever felt. The gesture filled Melchior with relief. She was obviously ill and injured, but she was moving on her own, no matter how small each individual movement was.

He took off his jacket and covered her with it, wrapping the broadcloth as close around her as he could. He wondered if it was worth it to feel around in the darkness for her clothes, but ultimately decided against the idea. There was no guarantee they were down here with her, and he didn't want to let her go. Losing her soft touch in the inky blackness of the basement would be like losing all of her, since he could not simply glance over and reassure himself that she was still with him. Instead he rubbed her arms through the coat as if trying to warm her, though the temperature of her skin spoke of fever. It was an impulsive movement, an attempt to give even the slightest bit of comfort when he knew almost nothing could really soothe her. Not now. Not after an event as horrific as this.

"Wendla," he said, a crooning note of entreaty in his voice. "Wendla, come on. We need to go. Don't you want to leave this place? You have to help me, dear heart."

"Melchior?"

The word was little more than a breath, but it made him smile through the fear. "It's me," he said. "Just me." More words bubbled up in his throat, but he pushed them back down. Now was not the time to overflow with apologies for leaving her, for putting her in this situation. Now was the time to get her free. The rest could come later.

She shook her head slightly; he felt the movement, though he could not see it. "No," she whispered. "You're not real. Just another dream."

"Not this time, _liebling_," he soothed her gently. "I'm not a dream this time." He lowered his head cautiously and placed his lips against the fall of her soft hair, then kissed the curve of her throat, just below her ear. "I'm Melchior, and I'm really here. Come away with me. Don't you want to leave this place?"

"Melchior," she said again, as if willing to consider his presence this time. "Melchi?"

"Yes. Can you sit up for me?"

At first he wasn't sure she'd heard, but then he felt her whole body tense as she attempted to rise. Her muscles quivered and she moved a little, but then she fell back against the table again, a low whimper on her lips. "Hurts," she said, her voice quivering and heavy with tears.

Another surge of anger tempered and steadied his fear as he realized how utterly depleted she was. He didn't know all that had been done to her, but he knew enough. The smell of blood hung heavy in the damp air, and the unspeakable condition in which he'd found her spoke of something beyond his ken. How could someone do this? Melchior wasn't even questioning why it had been done—not at the moment. He was more concerned with getting her out of there. But even in his darkest nightmares he hadn't dreamed Herr Sonnenstich—or anyone—was capable of cruelty as dire as this. How a full grown man could possibly think it was okay to hurt someone so small and innocent, he didn't know. In truth, he didn't want to know. While he had a naturally inquisitive mind, there were some dark truths of human nature that he shied away from. This was one. He could only assume that the village headmaster was a monster. Human beings didn't do things like this—or, at least, he'd thought they didn't.

"It's okay, Wendla," he said softly, slipping his arms carefully around her. His hand encountered the wet slide of blood as he slid it under her legs, cradling her close to his body. Both of them would be smeared in the red liquid before this night was through, but at the moment he didn't have time to care. A ruined shirt and coat meant nothing in comparison with Wendla's well being. He fought back the anxious impatience beating through his system, knowing he had to be careful with her right now. If he moved her too quickly—or worse, dropped her—he could cause even more damage, and he didn't think he could live with himself if that happened. She was too fragile right now.

"Melchi?"

Her soft voice still sounded confused, and there was a slight slur in it. She was obviously sick, and he feared the illness perhaps more than her injury. Wounds healed, but people died from sickness every day. A bright seam of fear traveled through his body, and he couldn't help the tremor that seized him. He couldn't lose her—not now. He just couldn't. "I'm here," he promised her gently, taking the first hesitant step away from that terrible table. He felt with each foot before placing it down, knowing there were rings and chains hammered into the floor. "Keep fighting, Wendla. Just a little longer and you'll be safe."

"Not a dream?"

Melchior paused and pressed his forehead against hers. "I'm not a dream," he promised again, "and I'll spend the rest of my life trying to prove it to you if need be." Unable to resist, he kissed her softly. Her dry lips trembled, and he licked the lower one gently. "I'm here," he said. "I've got you."

Her arms tightened infinitesimally around his shoulders, and though her grip was weak, it reassured him greatly. He shifted her weight slightly in his arms and resumed their painfully slow trek across the room. She was easy enough to carry for now, but he knew he wouldn't be able to make it all the way back to his parents' barn in one hike. They would have to stop to rest now and then, unless she was willing and able to climb on his back, which he highly doubted.

The whirring sound of the terrible machine continued, though there was an unhappy whine to it now since Melchior had bent the metal arms all akimbo. He was glad for the masking noise as he carried Wendla up the stairs—any sounds they made on the main floor of the house would likely be swathed by the mechanical whir, if anyone upstairs was awake to hear.

They emerged into the big room, and Melchior breathed a little better as moon and starlight trickled through the windows. He'd abandoned his lantern in that awful basement, and he wasn't going back for it. They would find their way home by moonlight—the track into town would be easy enough to follow, and from there he knew the way to his parents' house by heart. He only hoped that they could make it safely to their destination before anyone woke up. Wendla was naked and bleeding under the cover of his coat, and though she was in no condition to care who saw her at the moment, she would be mortified later if anyone caught a glimpse of her just now.

She shifted in his arms, a soft sigh escaping her lips as they stepped into the blue starlight and warm breezes of a summer night. Melchior was willing to bet that this was the first fresh air she'd breathed in several long days.

"Enjoy it, dear heart," he said, holding her close as he started the long walk home. He didn't know whether she was lucid enough to hear him at the moment, but the words were as much for his own comfort as for hers. "You've earned every breath."

* * *

><p><em>AN: I am not putting a German glossary in here, because the terms I've used are pretty self-explanatory. But I did want to point out the pronunciation of "liebling," which is German for "sweetheart." It's pronounced LEEB-ling, to rhyme with "whee" and not "die."_

_Reviews = some much-needed comfort to show up in this story!_


	6. Chapter 6

_A/N: Uh...did I say comfort? How about some drama instead? Does drama work for everyone?_

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><p><strong>Kindheit Ende<strong>

Fanny Gabor stood just outside the back door of her house, wiping her hands on a towel and gazing curiously at the barn. "Otto," she said over her shoulder, "is there something wrong with one of the animals?"

"Not that I know of." Her husband rose from the breakfast table. "They seemed fine when I did the chores earlier. Why?"

"I thought I heard a strange noise." She shook her head slightly. "It must have been my imagination."

"Yes, well, we both know where Melchior gets it from." He stopped short, shoulders tensing.

Frau Gabor turned to stare back out into the early-morning yard. They did not mention their son often, by mutual agreement. His absence had cut a deep swath through their ordered lives, but neither was quite willing to admit to the other just how badly he was missed. She fully intended to bring him home after this term, as she wasn't permitted to do so in the middle. But she hadn't figured out yet how to tell her husband.

Otto Gabor was, in general, a quiet and unprepossessing man. But he'd been firm about Melchior's punishment—he insisted the boy had to learn that what he'd done with young Wendla Bergmann was wrong. The essay for Moritz Stiefel had been a little more understandable; nothing written in it was, after all, untrue. But writing about a forbidden subject and baiting a young girl into ruining her life were two different things.

Frau Gabor agreed that her son needed to be punished. But she feared for him in that reform school. There was no way to know what the other boys had been sent there for, and she didn't like to think about the sort of company her son might be forced to keep there. Ordinarily she trusted Melchior to choose his friends wisely. She hadn't had any qualms about him remaining close with Moritz, after all, despite the town's low opinion of the other boy. But at the reformatory there would be boys already immersed in a life of crime, and she didn't want her son exposed to that.

She'd realized fairly quickly that sending Melchior away had not been a realistic solution to the problem, but she didn't really know what else to do. If he stayed, he would most certainly find out about the child he had fathered, and Fanny Gabor did not want that. It had been a relief that sending him away would also solve that little problem. Wendla Bergmann was a nice girl, and under normal circumstances Fanny didn't think she'd have any problem with the two of them courting—later, when they were old enough. But they were both too young for all of this, and she did not want Melchior's bright future ruined because of one mistake made in the heat of the moment.

Fanny hadn't actually seen the girl in a few days—her mother, Frau Bergmann, said that she was in bed, ill with anemia. Frau Gabor had her doubts. The timing was rather too coincidental for her tastes. Everyone knew the doctor two towns over ran a...secret practice of sorts, terminating unwanted pregnancies. If she were in Frau Bergmann's place, she might have given serious thought to the idea, despite the risk posed to Wendla by the operation. She suspected this so-called anemia might well be a lie to hide the truth of an abortion. If so, she honestly was rather relieved. She could bring Melchior home, and it was possible he would never be the wiser. Wendla might well be too ashamed to tell him all that had transpired, and that really might be for the best. Fanny knew that forbidding the children to see each other was unrealistic, but when her son came home she planned to have a long talk with Frau Bergmann about keeping them apart as much as possible. A repeat occurrence was just not acceptable.

"We need to give some serious thought to hiring on a boy," Otto said softly, coming up behind her. "For the fall harvest, if not before. I'm sure the day laborers would be happy to lend out a son. Melchior isn't here, and we both need to start facing facts."

Fanny weighed her options, but ultimately decided not to tell her husband just yet that she was planning to bring their son home after this term. She had to prepare a little more—give herself more time to really plan out what she was going to say. Besides, he wouldn't be back for the harvest; that was true enough. She nodded softly. "Thank God we can afford to hire the help," she said quietly.

"I know you miss him." Otto put on his hat and straightened his coat in preparation for the walk to work. "But this is really for the best right now. Maybe in a year or two we can talk about bringing him home."

Frau Gabor did not respond as her husband kissed her cheek and left the house. She had already decided that she wasn't waiting a year or two to get her son back. Now she just had to figure out how to tell his father.

* * *

><p>Melchior drew the linen sheet tighter around Wendla's prone body. His heart felt like it would never settle down to a normal pace again, and he wore anxiety like a straightjacket tight around his ribs. Finding Wendla had not solved the problem, as he'd so naively assumed. On the contrary—now he had a sick, injured girl on his hands, and he had no real idea what to do for her.<p>

She was drifting in and out of both consciousness and lucidity; Melchior hadn't managed to wrest any more words from her since they'd left the hell that was Herr Sonnenstich's house. She had been quiet for the most part during the arduous journey to his parents' house, low whimpers and noises of pain the only real sounds she made. He couldn't fault her for it, and did not attempt to shush her. At this point he didn't know if he even cared if they were discovered. She needed help, but he wasn't at all sure he was qualified to give it.

And he couldn't lose her. That was first and foremost. She was his future, and he needed her to be okay. Nothing would ever be as important as that.

He'd had to put her over his shoulder like a sack of flour to climb the ladder to the hayloft, which hadn't been pleasant for either of them. Melchior had learned quickly that any pressure on her abdomen was painful enough to elicit a response even when she wasn't entirely conscious. His anger boiled up each time a noise of pain was torn from her mouth, and he had to work to suppress the absolute rage he felt. His anger was of no use to Wendla right now—instead, he tried to channel it into the strength to keep going, for her sake. Fueled no doubt by the simmering fury, he'd been able to get them back to the hayloft much faster than he had originally assumed. They'd had to stop several times, but not for as long as he had thought.

Earlier in the day, before attempting to break into Herr Sonnenstich's house, Melchior had prepared the hayloft for them. He'd broken open a bale of straw and made a thick bed of the contents. The day laborers and many of the poorer people in town slept on straw-tick or corncob-filled mattresses, so it wasn't really a hardship. He stretched a thick length of canvas sheeting across the hay so no errant straws could poke through, and then slipped into the house to filch bedding and a little food while his mother was in town visiting friends.

Now he was cursing his shortsightedness, wondering why on earth he hadn't thought to locate any medical supplies. Wendla was still bleeding, though it was a slow seep rather than the bright gush of blood he was used to seeing from a wound. She was slick with sweat and uncomfortably warm to the touch, though she shivered and clutched at the linen sheet as if cold. Melchior would gladly pile all of the blankets on top of her if he knew it wouldn't cause any more harm, but he couldn't remember whether it was safe to sweat out a fever. All the little household mutterings of his mother had seemed to vanish from his head the moment he needed them. Was he supposed to feed a fever and starve a cold? Or was it the other way around? Should he use water to cool her skin, or should he cover her with blankets as she seemed to want?

He had seen only the briefest glimpse of her body when he removed his coat and covered her with the sheet, and he was quite sure he didn't want to look again even though he thought he should probably check for wounds. The two short instants—one in the basement before he dropped his lantern and the other just now—were burned into his memory, and they made him want to vomit. What those monsters had done to her lovely form was absolutely despicable.

She shifted slightly, a sharp noise of pain breaking from her dry lips as the movement hurt her. Melchior winced against the bitter bite of that sound.

"Wendla," he murmured, stroking a hand down her cheek. "Wendla, dear heart, can you hear me? I'm trying, I promise. I just don't know what to do for you."

Her breaths were short and erratic, tense with pain. Melchior longed for a medical book from his family's library, or his mother's down-to-earth experience. Something—anything to tell him what to do. He wasn't equipped to care for her, but he needed her to be okay. More than anything else, he needed her to be okay.

He brushed a damp curl of hair away from her forehead, stroking the heated skin. "You rest as well as you're able," he said. "I won't leave you—never again. I promise, Wendla."

A sudden noise in the barn below made Melchior tense. The animals were all outside for the day; they should be alone up here.

He was therefore not entirely prepared when his mother's face appeared in the trapdoor leading down to the barn.

* * *

><p>Otto had not been gone long when Fanny left the house with an apron full of dried corn to feed her chickens. She scattered the feed on the ground, calling and clucking to her birds as she went. They usually came to crowd happily around her during feeding time, talking to each other and to her as they pecked at the corn. But today they stayed away from the yard just in front of the barn, as if something out of the ordinary had frightened them.<p>

Another sound from the barn—much like the one Fanny swore she'd heard earlier—hit her ears. It was a bark of pain, plain as day. She froze, a suspicious scowl marring her strong face as she looked at the big building carefully. If one of the day laborers or a wanderer had sought shelter in her barn, she'd just have to tell him to move along. This was not the place for that kind of thing. The thought of fetching her husband from his job crossed her mind, but she ultimately decided not to. The walk to town was long, and who knows what might happen at home in the meantime? Instead, she finished scattering corn and took a deep breath. She could handle a vagrant. She didn't need Otto to do it for her.

The inside of the barn looked normal when she opened the big door wide to let in plenty of sunlight. Stalls for the horses and cows, a little indoor pen for the goats, for when the weather turned bad. She poked in the feed bins and looked through the equipment, even climbed up in the wagon to make sure no one was lying down and hiding in there.

Another noise hit her ears. Was it voices? One voice, at least. And it was coming from over her head. She put her foot on the lowest rung of the ladder, wondering who in the world would have decided to take up residence in her hayloft. It was stuffy up there, and while the smell of hay was friendly and inviting, bales weren't really a terribly comfortable seat.

Steeling herself for a confrontation, Fanny Gabor climbed the ladder and purposefully pulled her head and shoulders through the trapdoor, reaching out to steady herself on the floor of the hayloft.

She had been prepared for just about anything, but not for the sight that greeted her eyes. Melchior, her Melchior, knelt next to a prone form covered in a white sheet. The sharp scent of blood mixed with the mellow richness of the hay.

Melchior's head snapped up, and he narrowed his eyes. He moved quickly toward his mother, crouching defensively between her and the unknown body. She winced inwardly at the look in his eyes—a look she'd never before seen her son wear. Suspicion and a fierce, protective anger warred for dominance, and every line of his taut frame told her exactly what she needed to know. He did not trust her at all and, whatever was going on, he wasn't about to let her get any closer to whoever he was protecting.

"Go away," he said, and the low, steely quality of his voice shook Fanny Gabor. Her son had never spoken to her like that before. She stared dumbly at him for a long moment, the tension stringing tightly between them, twisting like the dust motes swirling through the air.

Suddenly the prone form under the sheet shifted, and a female voice whimpered softly. It was such a heartbreaking sound that it pressed Frau Gabor into action. For one awful moment, she'd thought Melchior was kneeling next to a dead body. But that pitiful sound was enough to steady her, to press her into action. Something wasn't right here, and she needed to know what was going on.

Ignoring Melchior's command, his mother instead pulled herself all the way into the hayloft. Her long, heavy skirts made it a difficult process, but she managed. She brushed him aside firmly and knelt next to the still form.

It was Wendla Bergmann. Fanny Gabor's mouth tightened as she surveyed the scene. The girl was unhealthily white; almost as white as the linen sheet pulled up to her chin. She was bathed in sweat, and her eyelids fluttered fitfully, never quite opening or remaining fully closed. Her lips were dry and cracked, and there was a raw spot crusted with blood in the corner of her mouth. Fanny reached out with the back of her fingers to test the girl's temperature, the instinctual act of a mother who has come across a child in distress.

"Don't touch her!" Melchior demanded, his voice rising.

Wendla flinched against the loud, harsh sound, and another whimper was ripped from her chest.

"She needs help, son," Fanny said, forcing an edge of firmness into her tone. "Hush. You're frightening her."

Melchior instantly fell silent. He didn't want his mother here—hadn't even considered the possibility that she might find their hiding place. His protective instinct was to pull Wendla away from the fingers pressed firmly against her forehead and cheek, but he forced himself to remain still. Moving her unnecessarily could cause more harm than good at this point, and he wasn't willing to risk it. His mother's assertion that he'd frightened the girl tore at his heart. Wendla couldn't be frightened of him. She just couldn't.

So he watched with barely-concealed anxiety as his mother traced the back of her fingers down Wendla's sweaty cheek, then found the pulse point in her throat. "She's burning up and her heart is racing," Fanny Gabor said quietly. "I won't ask for long explanations right now, but I need to know what's wrong in order to help her." She put her hand on the edge of the sheet and made to tug it down.

Melchior's hand stopped her. "No," he said. "Wendla wouldn't like it."

"Son, she's in no shape to be issuing orders right now, and neither are you. Calm down and let me see what's wrong."

He dropped his head into his hands, crumbling. Fanny touched his bent, shaking shoulder. "I know I'm not your favorite person right now, and I understand that. But I'm not the enemy. I'm trying to help."

He did not move to restrain her again, so she carefully reached out and pulled the sheet away from Wendla's body.

Nothing could have prepared her for what she saw. The girl's flesh was riddled with bruises, but they followed a sickening pattern that told an unmistakable story. Her breasts were badly bruised, the nipples raw. Angry red marks on her wrists and various locations on her legs told of binding. A dark bruise spread across her abdomen, and her inner thighs were smeared with blood.

"Melchior," Frau Gabor breathed, "I'm going to say this once. I need you to tell me you didn't do this."

"How could you even-"

"I need you to say it, son."

"I didn't do it," he said, spitting the words out between clenched teeth. He refused to raise his head and look at Wendla; Frau Gabor didn't push him to do so. "I rescued her from the son-of-a-bitch who did."

"Thank you." Frau Gabor reached out and touched Wendla's hand, squeezing the delicate fingers gently. She hadn't been prepared for any of this, and she let herself have one moment to feel adrift, unequipped to handle what had just been thrust upon her. Little Wendla Bergmann was not in good shape, and she honestly didn't know how much she could do for the girl without the doctor's help. But considering the circumstances, she did not particularly want to call him. Not until she knew just who had done this, and who had known about it. Secrets were devious things, even in small towns, and she knew of more than one neighbor who was hiding some dark skeletons in his closet.

The girl was panting short, sharp breaths, and Fanny worked her mouth into a firm line, steadying herself for what needed to happen. "I'm going to turn her over to see what her back looks like," she said. "She'll probably make some noise, so I want you to be prepared, son."

"Don't hurt her," Melchior pleaded, his head still buried in his hands. "Please, just don't hurt her."

The broken sound of her son's voice cut Fanny to shreds, but she steeled herself. Giving in wouldn't help anyone right now. She needed to know the full extent of the damage so she could go about helping the girl as much as possible. "Anything and everything is going to hurt her right now," she said. "I daresay you hurt her when you brought her here. I'm sorry, son, but it can't be helped at the moment."

He shook his head, still refusing to look. She steeled herself and put one hand on Wendla's shoulder and the other on her hip and pushed slowly.

Wendla didn't cry much, but the little whimper of protest made Melchior's head snap up, his eyes narrowing again.

"Oh, dear." Frau Gabor surveyed the damage to the girl's backside. The bruises and welts looked excruciating, and she wondered how bad the fever must be for Wendla not to cry at being laid on her back. There was really nothing to be done for the abused flesh but to let it heal, and try to keep pressure off of it as much as possible in the meantime. Frau Gabor returned Wendla to her back and paused. "Melchior, son, again, I need you to stay strong. She may make noise again."

"What are you going to do?" he asked suspiciously.

"I need to see just why she's bleeding." She looked at him appraisingly. "Wouldn't you like to run to the house and get me some clean rags?"

"No." His voice was firmer than she had ever heard it before. "I'm not leaving her."

"Only for a moment."

"_No_."

Melchior steeled himself, reaching out a hand to touch Wendla's bare ankle. The warm skin helped steady his nerves, and he forced himself to watch as his mother took a careful grip on the other leg and lifted it, bending the knee and pulling it carefully to the side.

The response from Wendla was instantaneous. He hadn't thought she was really awake before, but the moment Frau Gabor began to part her legs, she let out an inhuman, keening noise and her entire body spasmed, twisting, reaching as if trying to get away. She was too weak to put up any real fight, but the sight and sound of her utter terror broke him to pieces. "Let her go," he begged. "Let her go!"

"Shh," Frau Gabor said, crooning softly. She stroked Wendla's forehead with her free hand. "I know you hate it. I know. Poor baby, I know. Just a moment and we'll be done. I don't want to hurt you. Just be strong for one moment more."

It was impossible to tell whether Wendla could hear or understand the words, but the cool hand on her forehead seemed to calm her at least a little bit. Frau Gabor shifted, taking a fold of apron in her hand, and carefully wiped the area between the girl's legs. Her flesh was swollen, deep red and purple in places, and it was obvious she had been badly abused. She did not seem to be bleeding from any outward trauma, however, and Frau Gabor breathed a sigh of relief. She'd suspected the moment she smelled blood, but the sticky mucous and thick red strings of discharge that she'd removed told her exactly what she needed to know.

"Shh," she soothed again, easing Wendla's leg back down. "Oh, little girl, you have had an ordeal, haven't you?" She stroked the hot forehead, smoothing her tangled curls. "Everything will be all right now, though. It's okay. You're okay."

"You can't promise that," Melchior said tightly. "She's sick and bleeding, and you're going to pretend that everything's all right?"

"Hush, son." Fanny reached behind her to untie the soiled apron. "It looks worse than it is."

"They had this...this thing shoved up inside her!" he growled. "She could be bleeding internally and there's no way you would know."

"She may be a little," Fanny agreed, folding the apron up around the messy spot. Even with vigorous boiling and bleaching she doubted it would ever come completely clean, but she didn't care. There were more important things than a few stains on an old apron and some bedsheets. "But most of the bleeding and illness will pass in a few days. She's miscarrying, son."

Melchior froze. He stared at his mother and then at Wendla, silent once more. The word hung in the air between the three of them, and his heart grasped its import before his head could latch onto the meaning.

"She was—" he whispered.

"Yes," his mother confirmed. "She was, but not anymore. I don't know if that was the purpose of this senseless cruelty or not, though. There are easier ways to go about it."

Melchior felt an odd floating sensation, as if he were somehow detaching from the situation that was just too much for him to handle. Wendla, his Wendla, had been with child. His—he had no doubt. Had she known? Was that the reason she'd been sent to the headmaster? There were too many questions in his head that he couldn't possibly hope to answer.

A keen sense of loss swept through him, shaking him to the core as he realized the magnitude, suddenly, of this thing he had lost without ever really having had it in the first place. It was conceivable, he supposed, that sometime in the future he and Wendla could have children. But this one—this first, most precious surprise—had been taken from them, wrenched from their grasp without any recourse. How was he supposed to deal with such a loss? How could he possibly know what to think and feel, knowing what he now knew?

But through the shock and sudden numbness, one thing about his mother's declaration shone through. He raised his eyes to her, feeling blank and worn out. He supposed this latest betrayal shouldn't have surprised him—not by now. Not after all that had happened between him and his parents. But his mother had not seemed at all surprised that Wendla was with child, and the knowledge chilled something inside him that had once been warm and tender.

"You knew," he whispered. It wasn't a question. "You knew, and you sent me away anyway."

"I knew she was pregnant," his mother admitted. "I didn't—and still don't—know what happened to put her in this condition."

"You didn't think I had a right to know?" he demanded, and a sudden flash of fury burned through the ice inside him. He sprang to his feet, fists clenched. "Did you stop her from telling me, too, somehow?"

"Your father and I did," his mother confirmed, attempting to remain calm in the face of his anger. She'd never seen her son look or act like this before. He vibrated with rage, the passion of youth combined with the utter incomprehensibility of the situation. "We told the reformatory not to pass on any letters from the Bergmanns."

"Why?" he demanded. "Why would you do something like that? To me? To her?"

"We thought it was for the best, son. It's a moot point now, but we didn't want you throwing your life away because of one mistake!"

He dropped to his knees, the impact shaking the wooden floorboards, and took Wendla's hand carefully in his. "Look at her. _Look_ at her! This is what silence and lies have done—they've broken an innocent girl who was guilty of nothing except loving me. _Me_. Your son." His eyes were glassy, and Frau Gabor held her breath as the first pained tear spilled over. She hadn't seen Melchior cry since he was five or six years old. "Your hand might not have made any of these marks, but you're guilty just the same. You, her mother, my so-called father—everyone who hid the truth and then tried to cover it up with more lies when we discovered it for ourselves." He dropped his head. "And God help me—if there even is a God—I'm guilty, too. I let you do it. I didn't stay to protect her like I should have." He raised Wendla's hand to his mouth and kissed it softly. "Look at her," he said again. His anger was spent for now—drowned in sorrow and exhaustion. "She's perfect—so passionate and pure." Another tear dropped. "How could you think a life spent with her was wasted? How could anybody think that?"

Frau Gabor had no reply. She knew her son was gifted with words—she'd read his school papers from time to time, and she knew he was eloquent. But the way he spoke about Wendla cut deeply, hitting a raw, unsettled place inside her that his polished essays could never touch. He was speaking not as a scholar but as a young man deeply in love and desperate to do the right thing. In that moment, he was more beautiful to her than the day he was born.

"You—every one of you who hid this pregnancy from me and tried to keep us apart. You took something from us, something that can never be given back." He exhaled deeply, and the sigh seemed to leech away his remaining strength. He settled on the straw next to Wendla, keeping a careful grip on her hand. "For that, I will never forgive you. You need to go. Now."

Frau Gabor hesitated. "Melchior," she said, "son, there is obviously a great deal we have to discuss, but I understand that now is not the time. I'll leave you in peace as long as you first listen to me. I want to tell you how to care for her. Unless you'll let me bring her in the house?"

"No." His answer was firm. "No house, and no one else gets to know where we are."

His mother sighed. "I thought you might say that. I'll bring you the bottle of aspirin your father keeps in his study for headaches—it will help with her fever and pain. Keep her clean and warm, and try to get as much water in her as she can stand. Feed her just a little bit at first until you see what she can keep down—her stomach will likely be very upset the next few days. Change the sheets as they get sweaty. I'll bring up some cotton to put between her legs to keep the blood at least somewhat contained." She paused. "And a nightgown. I may not know exactly what' s happened to her, but I can see enough. She won't want to be naked when she wakes up."

"Please," Melchior begged, closing his eyes and burying his head against Wendla's shoulder. "Just go."

"I am," Frau Gabor said, moving back toward the trapdoor. "But this is not over, son. We need to talk at some point. I'm giving you a reprieve to care for her, because she needs you more than I do right now. Make no mistake, though, Melchior—this is far from over."

* * *

><p><em>AN: I couldn't ultimately decide whether I wanted Melchior's mother to be a sympathetic character or not, so I tried for something in the middle. I'm interested to hear what people think. Mwah! More Melchior/Wendla next chapter as she slowly begins to heal._


	7. Chapter 7

_A/N: A little more Melchior/Wendla in this chapter, some more drama, and the beginnings of a plan. I think Wendla will wake up in the next chapter, so we'll get some more comfort then._

_All standard disclaimers apply._

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><p><strong>Kindheit Ende<strong>

As soon as he heard the rusty squeal of the barn doors closing underneath him, Melchior let out a ragged breath. They were alone again, his mother returned to the house. Adrenaline from the encounter fueled his rapid heartbeat, and he turned his head further into the crook of Wendla's shoulder, burying his face in the soft fall of her tangled hair. Though she teetered on the edge of unconsciousness and he knew she was in pain, the touch and scent of her soothed him in ways he could not verbalize. He knew he had a number of tasks to undertake to make her more comfortable, but for the moment he just needed to breathe. To gather himself, to center and prepare for what would likely be a very long and difficult ordeal.

How stupid and naive had he been, he thought bitterly, to have assumed that a day or so of rest hiding up here in the hayloft would prepare them for the multi-day trip to Berlin? His earlier fantasy of the two of them joyfully discovering the city together now seemed so childish that it was laughable. While he had been dreaming those dreams, walking through the gentle night, Wendla had been trapped in a hell he hadn't previously thought could possibly exist on earth. Bitter guilt washed through him, settling heavily in his heart. He turned his head toward her skin, pressing his lips gently against the smooth column of her throat. He could feel her pulse racing just there, under his mouth. Such a tenuous tie to life. His mother might not think Wendla's illness was terribly dangerous, but Melchior did not entirely trust her assurance that a few days would make everything all right again. Too much was riding on this outcome, and he couldn't calm down and believe his mother's words. Not with Wendla at stake. The soft beat of her pulse, though strong and fast, did not reassure him either. Medicine had come a long way since the classical days of Hippocrates, but the doctor in town cautioned his patients and their loved ones that death was always an option. No one could foresee the future. No one could assure a positive outcome. The beat of blood under thin, tender skin seemed like such a fragile tie to life, so frail and easily stilled.

Had their unborn child had a pulse, too, Melchior wondered? He knew virtually nothing about pregnancy except the bare-bones facts—conception, nine months' waiting time, and then birth. Everything else was a mystery to him, and his studious, inquisitive mind began to pester him with questions he couldn't answer. Had conception occurred the moment he spilled inside her, or was there a...time lapse of some sort? What exactly happened between his body and hers to create the spark of life? He knew it didn't happen every time a man and woman lay together, but he wasn't entirely sure what made a woman fertile one day and not another. Would the weeks that had passed since their tryst in the hay have been enough for the child to have developed something as intricate as a heart to pump and blood to flow? His mother had known exactly what was happening when she saw the thick, bloody discharge between Wendla's legs. But was that all that was going to happen? What about the dead child itself? Would it pass as well? Would it be of a size and shape to be recognizable, or would it be lost in the general flow of blood and tissue that his mother had understood?

Emotions Melchior could not name or entirely understand flitted through him, one after another. It was as if his mind and heart could not agree on what to think or feel. He ached to understand this loss scientifically, but also emotionally. Unwittingly, utterly without meaning to, he and Wendla had created life. The idea of such a thing floored him. He knew, certainly, that sex led to conception. But it hadn't ever occurred to him that their single passionate encounter could have produced a child. Many married couples waited several tense years for their first baby, and though it was not a topic discussed where the children of the town could hear, Melchior didn't for one minute believe the lack of babies meant a lack of trying. But just once was all it had taken for him and Wendla. Just once.

Too much information at once was overwhelming his exhausted brain. Two days and nights without sleep had already taken their toll, and everything that had happened since returning to the village and finding Wendla was just too much. He didn't know how to even begin processing it all. Wendla had been brutally tortured at the hands of the headmaster—and possibly the other teachers living with him as well. Her mother had to have known at least some of what was going on, for she brought Wendla to the headmaster and then lied about the girl's whereabouts. On top of that, Wendla had been pregnant with his child, which his mother said she was now in the process of miscarrying. The pregnancy had to be the secret Martha had warned him about—the secret she said his mother was keeping. She and his father had known about the baby, and they had sent him off to the reformatory anyway. They had deliberately acted to keep him in the dark, forbidding letters from Wendla and not mentioning a word themselves.

And what would they have done if Wendla hadn't miscarried, he wondered as he pressed his lips against her skin again, kissing the tender line of her throat. What if the child had successfully been born? What would they have done then? Would they have refused to let him come home at all—ever-lest he find out about it? Surely they understood that any reform school only had jurisdiction over their pupils until they turned eighteen. At that age, they were considered adults and free to go. Even if he had been forced to stay in that terrible place until his eighteenth birthday, he would have immediately come back to Wendla. Even without a letter from her in all that time, even if he feared her feelings had changed, he would have come back. He had to. Wherever he went, he heard her heart beating. She was part of him—inextricably linked in a way he never wanted to sunder. Marriage vows meant nothing compared to the vow his heart had already made. He was hers, for good.

The squeak of the barn door heralded his mother's impending arrival, but Melchior didn't care enough to move. He needed the reassurance of touch, despite the situation. The sharp iron smell of blood dissipated when he was so close to her skin. He didn't bother to hide the slow drip of tears. He hadn't cried in a very long time, but Wendla somehow brought all of his emotions to the fore. He'd struggled to keep his composure after that awful encounter gone awry when she'd asked him to hit her with a switch, and each meeting thereafter had been fraught with feelings far beyond what he'd ever imagined were possible. They were young and in love, and nothing could be casual and easy between them. The line between joy and tragedy was wafer-thin.

"Melchior." His mother's voice was quiet, but he tensed anyway. His head understood that she was trying to help, but his heart still burned with resentment for her betrayal. She had sent him away and refused to let him know about his child. His sense of injustice was high, and he felt strongly that somehow—somehow—this tragedy could have been prevented without such a reliance on secrets and lies. He also resented the intrusion, wanting nothing more than to be left alone with Wendla.

"Melchior," his mother persisted, and he felt the floor shift as she pulled herself through the trapdoor again. "Sulking won't help anything."

He tore himself away from Wendla, whirling on his mother. The shouted reply that he wasn't sulking, he was _grieving_, stilled on his tongue. Not for his mother's sake, but for Wendla's. She had shied away from his angry voice before, and he couldn't stand the idea of making her do it again. She was too fragile right now, and if she couldn't handle the sound of a voice lifted in anger, he wasn't going to do it. Not if it killed him.

Fanny Gabor startled at the look on his face. He had no idea what she saw when she looked at him—the evidence of unmanly tears, yes, but other than that he had no clue. Something stopped her speech, though, and they stared at each other for a long, tense moment. It was as if she were seeing him for the first time. Melchior didn't know exactly what about his mother's expression made him feel that way. Her eyes were cautious but her mouth soft as her gaze traveled over his face.

Finally she exhaled, the sound almost wistful. "You can't place blame for the miscarriage, son. You are a young man and you don't know, but these things are really quite common. They happen without cause, and nobody knows why. It's just one of those things."

"You can't possibly look at that bruise on her belly and tell me nobody did anything to make this happen," Melchior snarled quietly.

"I don't know what happened," his mother agreed. "I suspect only Wendla could tell you, since the perpetrator clearly won't be confessing anytime soon. Not to something like this." She paused. "Will you tell me where you found her, son?"

"No."

Frau Gabor set a bundle wrapped in a quilt down on the hayloft floor. "Who are you trying to protect?" she asked carefully.

"I don't know," he answered honestly. "But I don't trust you, and I'm not saying a thing unless Wendla says I can."

"She won't be in any condition to talk about things for a while yet, son." Fanny unwrapped the bundle, setting various things on a nearby bale. "Meanwhile, whoever it is—he'll know she's missing. He probably already does. What will he do then? Whether you like it or not, I'm involved now. We need to know what he might do, and how to prepare."

"Nobody saw me," Melchior said stubbornly. "They won't know who took her."

"You hope."

"I _know_," Melchior said, closing a frustrated fist around a handful of loose hay. "They would have stopped me if they knew I was there. I wasn't armed unless you count my pocket knife, and I was carrying her. They could have stopped us easily. I'm telling you, they were asleep the whole time."

"They?"

Melchior met her eyes squarely and said nothing.

His silence received the desired result. She sighed again and shook her head. "I can't force you to say anything," she admitted. "Though I frankly wish I could. You said yourself that secrets and lies caused this mess. Do you really think more will solve it?"

"I'm not lying. I'm protecting her. She had no choice in any of this, and I'm not taking any more decisions away from her. Whatever happens now, it happens on Wendla's terms. Not mine, and certainly not yours."

Frau Gabor felt a wondering surge of pride shoot through her. Never had she heard words such as those from any man, but her son was adamant in his defense of little Wendla Bergmann. She stilled for a moment, looking carefully at him again. His young face was beautiful in his conviction, the lines of surety drawn stark and strong across his normally sweet features. His blue eyes were almost steel grey, paled with mistrust. In that moment, she knew that her wish to keep them apart—her hope that he could move on from this, that his life might not be permanently altered—was in vain. He wanted Wendla, and he was willing to give up anything to have her. But not just as a possession, as most men courted a wife. He wanted her happiness so desperately that he was willing to keep the identity of her attacker a secret until she gave him permission to tell. The amount of trust and devotion such an act required blew her away. She'd neither heard nor experienced such a thing before—not outside of romantic novels, anyway.

But it was here now, staring her in the face in the form of her utterly serious son. He wasn't giving up on Wendla, no matter what it cost. And because she loved her son—both the little boy he had been and the amazing young man he had become—Fanny Gabor wouldn't either. Even had she the heart to turn the child away, which she didn't think she did, she wouldn't. For Melchior's sake, and for Wendla's. The girl desperately needed help, and Melchior was in no condition to provide it on his own. He was too emotionally involved, too fraught with worry and anxiety. She was also willing to bet that he had absolutely no idea how to properly care for her. He might be a scholar and well-read for his age, but that didn't mean he knew anything about practical application. Fanny was no doctor, but she was a mother. She had plenty of experience nursing children and neighbors, and she would do her best in this case as well.

"Go draw a bucket of water," she said quietly, dropping both her eyes and the subject, knowing Melchior would understand the capitulation. "Bring it back and we'll wash her as well as we can before dressing her."

"I'm not leaving her," he insisted.

"Son, if we're going to help her, we need to compromise. I won't ask you again for a name, but you must trust that I know what I'm doing. Fetch some clean water, please—I can't imagine what you think I'll do to the girl while you're gone."

"I promised I would stay with her," he said stubbornly. "What if she wakes up? She'll think I broke my promise. I can't do that to her."

"I can guarantee that she won't be waking up lucid anytime soon, son. The fever has to run its course. Go now. The sooner you get back, the sooner we can have her resting comfortably."

Melchior went, though he was entirely unwilling. He understood what his mother wanted, but once he was down the ladder and Wendla was no longer in his line of sight, anxiety gripped him strongly. He needed to be able to touch her, to see her. Without that physical tie, he had no idea what was going on. Rushing, he filled two wooden buckets at the pump and balanced them carefully in his hands as he stumbled back up the ladder. He didn't want to be sent away for more later; even just a few minutes of separation felt like torture.

"Good," his mother said when he returned, setting the buckets down carefully near the trapdoor. "We have plenty of water to work with. Melchior, son, I need to know whether you think you can handle helping me with this. I want to get her clean, but we have no real idea how she'll react. The cold water may not feel pleasant if she has a chill, and she probably won't want to be moved. She may cry again. If you can't handle it, tell me now."

"I can," he said tightly, his jaw tense.

"I hope that's the truth." She gestured to an old, ripped sheet she had spread on the bare floor a few feet away. "Move her onto that carefully, if you can. We'll try to leave your sleeping area as dry as possible."

Melchior knelt next to Wendla and stroked a hand gently down her cheek. "I don't know if you can hear me," he said softly, in a completely different voice than he used with his mother. It was tender and affectionate, solemn and gentle. "I'm going to tell you everything we're doing anyway, just in case you can. I don't want you to be surprised or afraid. You're safe, Wendla, sweetheart. I'm Melchior, and I'm here. I won't let anyone hurt you again."

She did not respond, but he had not really expected her to. He slid his arms around her and lifted her carefully, his exhausted muscles protesting even her slight weight. Going on three full days with no rest was taking its toll. He moved her quickly, settling her onto the old sheet. His mother knelt on her other side with one of the buckets of water and pressed a soft cloth into his hand. "I'll go first and soap, and you can follow me and rinse," she said. "We'll try to be as quick as possible, I promise. I know this isn't pleasant for anyone involved."

Melchior could barely stand to look at the horrible bruises and raw, red lines marking Wendla's body. He took a deep breath and soaked his cloth in the cold bucket, then wrung it out a little. His mother had already lathered another damp cloth. As the smell hit his nose, he blinked in surprise. She was using the expensive store-bought soap she never permitted him to use, saving it for visitors. The homemade lye soap he was used to was so harsh that it stung and burned. But the watery suds she was now rubbing across one of Wendla's bare feet smelled soothing, and the scent didn't sting his nostrils. A flash of gratefulness consumed him, though he said nothing.

Wendla flinched at the first touch of the cold water, and her face screwed up in an unhappy frown. But she did not wake, though Melchior kept a careful eye on her as his mother worked her way up past the knee. She paused about halfway up Wendla's thigh and shifted to the other leg.

"You can rinse that one now," she said. "We'll save the most difficult part for last. I don't want her crying and struggling any longer than necessary."

Melchior squeezed his wet rag as he carefully ran it up the smooth calf. Water rinsed away the soapy suds, leaving her lovely skin wet and gleaming. He wished they could wash away the rope marks and bruises as easily. But wishing for the impossible wasn't helping anything, and he tried hard to focus on the task at hand, one small swatch of skin at a time. To look at the whole filled him too deeply with despair; he couldn't do it. But focusing on one small piece at a time made the task just barely tolerable.

He followed his mother's sure, swift hands as she carefully washed Wendla's torso, taking extra care around her horribly bruised breasts. A thin trickle of blood came away on her soapy cloth, and she paused. "Rinse there," she said, frowning as she tried to get a look at the raw, bleeding nipple. He obeyed, his hand shaking as he squeezed water over her skin without touching. "Ah," his mother said, and she tsked softly. "Poor baby. She's been bitten."

"Bitten?" Melchior was appalled. He'd _kissed_ that exact spot with reverence, and more than once. He'd used his lips and tongue to explore her body, entranced by her soft curves and the sweet sounds she made when he touched her. But he'd never even considered biting her—certainly not hard enough to draw blood. The point of touch was pleasure, not pain. How could anyone substitute one for the other and think it was okay? And to bite someone like an animal...

"She'll heal," his mother said. "The skin isn't badly broken." She sighed and moved on, lathering her cloth with more soap and moving the wet, sudsy rag up Wendla's throat and then over her shoulders and down her arms. They worked in silence for a while, moving each limb with the utmost care and cautiously sitting her up, Melchior holding her while his mother washed and rinsed her back. Frau Gabor carefully picked the pins out of Wendla's tangled curls and, with Melchior's help, tipped the girl's head back into the bucket to wash her hair. Wet, her hair was actually much longer than Melchior had previously realized. The curl was pulled straight by the weight of the water, and the shining strands dripped halfway down her back. Fanny Gabor let Melchior wash the girl's face, knowing the infinite care he took with her would keep soap out of her eyes.

But finally there was no more dawdling they could do, and Melchior's mother paused. She wet her cloth and lathered it again, thinking and watching the girl's prone body. Melchior knew what was coming, and he braced himself. The last time they'd tried touching between Wendla's legs, her terrified response had nearly killed him. If she screamed like that again, he didn't honestly know if he could stand it no matter what he'd told his mother.

"I think I want you to pick her up in your arms again," Frau Gabor said slowly. "That way I'll have access to everything without having to move her around unnecessarily." It would also limit what he saw her doing, but she wasn't going to mention that. "She may feel more secure being held, too." It was a long shot, but she supposed anything was technically possible.

Melchior pulled her damp body into his arms, cradling her close. He was more than happy to hold her, especially if his mother thought it might help calm her. He rose to his feet, holding her steady against him.

His mother rose, too, and took a deep breath. "I'll be as quick and gentle as I can," she said, "but you must be prepared for anything, son. I really have no idea how she might react."

Melchior nodded and firmed his grip under Wendla's knees and around her back. He clenched his jaw as his mother stepped up and ran the soapy cloth across Wendla's exposed hip, then dipped down to reach her backside. Wendla's body tensed, and she whimpered for the first time during the bathing process. She flinched away from the cloth, though there was really nowhere for her to go.

Frau Gabor knelt, carefully inspecting the horrifically bruised skin. "One of the welts has split," she said quietly. "There's raw flesh showing—no wonder it hurts." She continued cleaning, doing her best to keep the soap away from the broken skin. Wendla whimpered again and another, harsher sound of pain escaped her lips.

"Talk to her," Fanny Gabor suggested. She stood up. "I need to reach between her legs now, and we both know she isn't going to like it. Give me her far leg so I can part them. Prepare yourself, and try talking quietly to her through this. It may not help, but you never know."

Melchior released the leg as instructed, and his mother carefully grasped behind Wendla's bent knee and pulled it away from the other. Just as before, Wendla screamed. She jerked, her body spasming as she clutched at Melchior's shoulders and throat with frantic fingers, trying to pull herself away.

"Easy, easy, dear heart," he said, his heart racing and his muscles shaking as he tried to remain strong in the face of her obvious terror. "It's just me. Just Melchior. I'm right here with you. We're cleaning you up, and then you can wear a big heavy nightgown and rest. Just a little more, _liebling_, and this will all be over."

She did not respond, but Frau Gabor held firm. Melchior was at least distracting himself by talking, and that was more or less what she had hoped would happen as she cleaned between the girl's legs as quickly as she could. Blood and thick discharge were still slowly seeping from her body, but it wasn't enough to be terribly messy. She rinsed quickly, blotting the area dry with a towel and then slipping some folded cotton between her legs before closing them again, letting Melchior slide his hand around both knees once more.

Wendla stopped screaming and writhing the moment Fanny released her, but she continued to cry softly, burying her head against Melchior's throat and clutching him tightly.

"I don't understand how she can cry and hold me so tightly when she's not really awake," he said. Frau Gabor could see the way his arms shook with both physical and emotional fatigue. Both children needed time to rest and recuperate. Wendla was far past her physical limit by now, and Melchior was pushing his. Fanny Gabor picked up the garment she had brought for the girl and shook it out.

"I know it seems strange," she said. "Her mind isn't what's responding; that's all I can tell you. If she was conscious, she would understand what was going on."

"She still wouldn't like it," he said tightly. "How could she, after what's happened to her?"

His mother made no answer—she had none. There was a very real possibility that the child would never fully recover from what had been done to her. Melchior would have to make a decision, once they learned the extent of her emotional scarring. If she could never willingly accept a man's intimate touch again, he had a difficult choice to make. She had no doubt that he loved the girl, but would he be able to stay with her? Would they be able to live happily in a permanent sort of way if they could never again share physical intimacy? Fanny had no answers to her questions, and now was not the time to ask Melchior and provide yet another quandary for him to worry over.

"That's my nightshirt," Melchior murmured.

"Yes." Frau Gabor attempted a smile. "I thought she might feel more comfortable in it than one of my nightgowns." She bunched the soft fabric up in her hands and guided it over Wendla's head. It took some maneuvering, as the girl adamantly did not want to separate her body from Melchior's by so much as an inch. But working together, they managed to dress her. The long-sleeved garment was huge on her—it had been made to be baggy even on a young man Melchior's size, and she absolutely drowned in the pool of fabric.

Melchior let out a sigh of relief as he was able to lay her down once more on the thick bed of hay he had prepared. He lay her on her side so the worst of her bruises wouldn't be irritated by pressure. He buttoned the wrists and throat of the nightshirt, and covered Wendla with a sheet and a blanket. Frau Gabor tucked the quilt she had used to bundle things up to the hayloft on top.

"She'll sweat under all those covers," she said, "but if she thinks she's cold, there's no harm. Every once in a while, try removing the blankets. If she shivers and reaches for them, give them back. I know it seems counter-intuitive to keep her warm when she's already feverish, but she's not hot enough to cause harm. If her fever doesn't break in a few days we might try cooling her, but for now if she wants to be covered, I'd say to keep her covered."

Frau Gabor reached for more items she had brought with her from the house. "Here's the small mortar and pestle, and your father's bottle of aspirin. I recommend crushing a pill into some water and seeing if she'll drink it—you don't want to risk her choking on a whole one while she's not fully conscious."

"What about food?"

"She probably won't even attempt to eat in this state, and I'd worry about choking again. For now, I'd suggest mixing some sugar water—as sugary as you can make it. It's not ideal, but the sugar will settle her stomach and help her body continue to function until you can get some real food into her." She paused and touched her fingers gently to Wendla's cheek. Sweat was already starting to prick her forehead again, and she was hot to the touch. "Poor baby," she murmured.

They sat in silence for a long moment, neither quite knowing what to say or do next. Fanny Gabor sighed quietly. "How did you find her?" she asked, not sure she would get an answer.

A short bark of humorless laughter left Melchior's mouth. He dug in his pocket and extracted a folded and crumpled letter. "You might have cut off all mail from the Bergmanns, but that didn't stop me from getting to her when it counted."

Fanny examined the letter. It didn't terribly surprise her when she read the name on the envelope. "Did you want me to read this?"

"Not particularly." Melchior held out his hand, and she gave it back.

"What did Martha tell you?"

"Where Wendla was, and who had taken her there. She said she didn't know what was happening, but that she had a sixth sense about these things and she believed something was wrong." He paused and gazed at the sleeping girl lying between himself and his mother. "Under the circumstances, I owe her an immense debt."

"I'm not really surprised to hear it. Martha knows enough to understand when things aren't right."

Melchior's head shot up, suspicion in his eyes once more. "What does that mean?" he demanded. "What do you know about her?"

"What do _you_ know?"

"That her father beats her and her mother allows it."

"Mm." Frau Gabor stared pensively out the window. "Her mother allows more than that, though you can't blame the woman. She's just as terrified as her daughter is. Martha's father is not a kind man."

Suddenly the pieces clicked together in Melchior's head. Martha had known what he meant when he spoke of sex, and she had not reacted favorably to the mention. Now his mother was telling him—could she possibly mean—

"No," he whispered. "No, you can't mean that."

Frau Gabor's eyes were gentle. "You're a good boy, Melchior, and you're young. You still expect the best from people. Yes, Martha's mother has admitted to me that her husband is inappropriate with the girl. Neither is she the only child in town beaten and ill-used. Why do you think your friend Ilse ran away to live with the bohemians? It wasn't because of their nurturing environment, I can tell you that." She paused. "Your father was close friends with Herr Bergmann before his death. You were young, and I don't know if you remember. Wendla's father expressed on several occasions a vague worry for his daughters. His wife was determined from the start that they would never lay a hand on the girls in punishment or discipline. But her alternative, Herr Bergmann thought, was perhaps just as bad. Frau Bergmann bullied her children from the moment they were born, until neither girl would dream of disobeying. They were never hit, as far as I know, but they were emotionally browbeaten. That was why Wendla always seemed to be permitted more latitude than the other girls in town. Her father is dead, and her mother thought she had molded an obedient little doll. I imagine it didn't seem so terrible to let the girl dream by the riverside or go on walks alone, when she thought she could be sure of her behavior." Frau Gabor paused. "I can only assume that finding out her young daughter was with child must have been an intense shock, under the circumstances."

"No shock," Melchior said, low and firm, "could excuse what she did."

His mother watched him carefully. She knew he did not want to tell her anything without Wendla's permission, but she knew enough to start putting together at least some of the pieces on her own. She filled a crockery cup with water from the second bucket and reached for the cask of sugar. Busying herself fixing a cup for Wendla, she had a moment to think.

Frau Bergmann had to have known at least some of what was going on—that much was painfully obvious. She had lied about her daughter's whereabouts, and that was telling. It stood to reason, then, that whomever Melchior had rescued Wendla from had had her with her mother's permission. The thought sickened Fanny, though she knew she didn't have the full story yet. There was no telling just how much Wendla's mother had known. She might have sent Wendla away for an abortion or something else similar, never dreaming that this would be the outcome.

A plan started forming in Fanny's head as she passed the cup to her son. They needed to start moving toward a resolution to this dilemma, and she didn't think they could wait until Wendla was recovered. Whomever had had her would be desperate to get her back, if only so Frau Bergmann didn't learn that she had escaped. Fanny Gabor had never been friends with Wendla's mother. They were on opposite ends of the parenting spectrum, Fanny believing that her son needed to learn and grow at his own pace while Frau Bergmann held and monitored Wendla's behavior tightly, forbidding all but the smallest deviations. Dreaming by the river was grudgingly permitted, but reading Goethe certainly was not.

But that hardly mattered now. Frau Gabor lifted her eyes, watching her son holding the girl's head, urging her to drink. She did, swallowing water as if she'd been denied for days. No, it didn't matter anymore that Fanny and Frau Bergmann did not get along. They would have to come to some sort of agreement, and soon. The well-being of both their children depended on it.

"She wants more," Melchior said softly, interrupting his mother's musing.

"One cup of plain water this time, and that's enough for now." She shifted, preparing to head back down the ladder. "Too much at once and she won't be able to keep it down. Offer a cup or two every few hours, alternating between plain and sugared." She placed her foot on the first rung. She did not want to leave them, especially with both young people in such a precarious state. But Melchior desperately needed some time alone to process all that had happened. She could see it in his eyes—the overload and exhaustion that threatened to overwhelm him. "You need to rest, too, son. I know you don't want to, but you need to try. I'll bring you a hot meal in a while. For now—just rest."

He nodded vaguely, his attention centered on the girl in the hay. Frau Gabor smiled a little wistfully before descending the ladder, heading back toward the house.

* * *

><p>Melchior set the cup aside, exhaling deeply. Wendla was curled on her side again, and she clutched the edges of the blankets tightly in a white fist as if even in sleep she were afraid they would be taken away. Her expression was not exactly peaceful, but she was no longer crying and that had to count for something. He sat near her, playing with a lock of damp hair. He knew his mother's advice was sound, but he didn't honestly think he could sleep. Not when he didn't know what the next few hours might hold.<p>

He considered the small bundle of food he'd brought up for them, but though he hadn't eaten in a long time, he didn't feel hungry. Too many other things were far more important, and his body wasn't registering hunger.

Slowly he removed his shoes and stretched out on the thick bed of hay, propping himself up so he could watch Wendla sleep. He wanted desperately to hold her, but he didn't know how to manage such a thing without hurting her. Instead, he finally settled for digging under the blankets with one hand, finding hers and holding it gently. She did not react, and he hoped that meant she was truly asleep now, resting as comfortably as they could make her.

Melchior didn't know what was going to happen in a few hours—a day—a week. His entire plan had been thrown off, dashed to pieces the moment his dark lantern illuminated her bound form in that terrible basement. He liked knowing, liked being secure in his plans and goals, and this nebulous sense of uncertainty was incredibly uncomfortable.

But the most uncomfortable thing of all was the guilt. He stroked her fingers gently as she slept, eyes riveted to her lovely, delicate features. He hadn't been the one to hit her, to mark her body so terribly. But his passionate wish to be close to her, to know her body and experience that ultimate connection, had put all of this in motion. He had planted a child inside her, the expulsion of which was now making her extremely ill. He didn't know exactly why her mother had given her over to Herr Sonnenstich, but if his actions had also prompted that, he didn't know if he'd ever be able to forgive himself. None of this was fair to Wendla, but she was suffering the brunt of it nonetheless.

And his mother was right, in a way. He _could_ just walk away, technically. Wendla was bound by the consequences of their actions in a way he, as a man, was not. But his mother was also terribly, terribly wrong. There was no way he would leave Wendla now. Not ever. He didn't know what the future held for them, but he was positive they could face it together. Whatever happened, she could count on him. He'd let her down before, but he was adamant that it would never, never happen again.

"I'm so, so sorry, dear heart," he whispered into the silence of the hayloft. "I should never have let them send me away. I thought you were safe with your mother, that she would protect you as a parent is supposed to. I never dreamed anything like this would happen."

Wendla shifted slightly in her sleep, and her fingers fluttered softly in his grasp. A gentle breath left her mouth, and her expression eased. "Melchior," she whispered, the word thick with sleep and fever.

"Yes," he agreed, squeezing her hand again and settling in to rest, though he wasn't at all sure he would be able to sleep. "It's Melchior. I'm here, and I'm never leaving you again."

* * *

><p><em>AN: Reviews = more comfort! Mwah!_


	8. Chapter 8

_A/N: Hi guys! Finally finished responding to last chapter's reviews, so here's the next one. Lili and Jamie, your reviews were unsigned so I can't thank you personally, but thank you nonetheless!_

_Here's another historic note: aspirin _was_ invented before 1891. Whether it was widely available in places like rural Germany, I don't know. This was the heyday of patent medicine, however, when just about anyone could mix anything up in a bottle, slap a label on it, and sell it as medicine. This is where the term "snake oil salesman" comes from. Most of the "medicine" people had around their houses, therefore, was really just alcohol mixed with random substances of dubious origin. Other compounds that we now know are extremely dangerous for you (laudanum and other opium-based drugs, cocaine, and ether) were also widely used in the home. Considering the state of Wendla's health right now, most of the things people considered "medicine" at the time would probably kill her. Since I'm not that mean, we're moving just that slight distance away from historical accuracy._

_I have to thank both northstar61 and androgenius for their invaluable help with this chapter (and the next one). Y'all are the greatest!_

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><p><strong>Kindheit Ende<strong>

"Fanny! Fanny, where's my aspirin?"

Frau Gabor closed her eyes as she heard her husband's irritated shout. She set aside a bowl she had been filling for Melchior and wiped her hands on her apron. "Wherever you left it," she said calmly, following the sound of his voice to the front door. He held a large lidded wicker basket in his arms, which was unusual. She watched curiously as he set the basket down before taking off his hat and overcoat.

"It's been a long day," Otto said, sighing and rubbing the bridge of his nose. "I thought about what you said this morning—about hearing noises in the barn—and I realized I'd heard some rustling sounds earlier when I did the chores." He dusted his hat and placed it on the rack next to the door before sinking into his favored chair. "Must be mice or rats making nests up in the hayloft. I've no patience to deal with traps, and with Melchior gone I went with a simpler solution."

"Which is?" Fanny crossed her arms over her chest to hide her nervousness. Knowing now what had been making the noises in the hayloft, she wished she'd never said a word to her husband. He would be furious if he learned that Melchior had broken out of the reformatory, and she honestly didn't know if the reason behind it would change his mind. He wasn't often quick and resourceful about getting things accomplished, and she'd hoped he'd forgotten about their little exchange this morning. Clearly that wasn't the case, though, and she prepared herself for whatever damage control would now need to be done.

Otto Gabor gestured to the basket. "Right here. Pastor Kahlbauch came by today and mentioned his wife had more cats in their barn than she knew what to do with. I offered to take a few off of their hands, and he eagerly agreed."

Fanny breathed a sigh of relief. Cats wouldn't cause a problem, and any noises Otto heard now he would likely attribute to the new additions. "I'll take them out back for you," she offered.

"Are you sure you can climb the ladder with that basket?"

"Of course." She picked it up, hefting the bulky weight in her arms. It was heavier than it looked, and a low mewling sound came from inside. "If you have a headache you should rest, anyway. You look for your aspirin, and I'll be right back."

He did not protest again, and Fanny quickly left the room. She smiled in relief as she exited the house and headed for the barn. If her husband had insisted on taking the cats up to the hayloft himself, the result would not have been good for anyone. At least now she could fetch the bottle of aspirin back and drop off the basket with none the wiser.

The long summer evening was rich with gold and green light as she climbed the ladder, the unwieldy basket under one arm. She could see the yellow light spilling through the hayloft window before she emerged through the trapdoor, and she looked around as she carefully set the basket on the floorboards and pulled herself fully into the room.

Both children were soundly asleep, and neither so much as flinched as she sat a moment and watched them. Wendla's small form was buried under the pile of blankets, Melchior curled beside her, his face solemn as he slept the sleep of utter exhaustion. Fanny shifted closer and touched the back of her fingers to Wendla's damp forehead, testing her temperature. Her skin was hot and moist, but her breaths were untroubled. Going through the motions she had requested of Melchior, Frau Gabor gently pried the edge of the blankets out of Wendla's tight grip and pulled them away from her body. Instantly the girl's face contorted in an uncomfortable frown and she reached blindly, her fingers seeking, searching for the comfort of the covers. Fanny made to cover her again but, before she could, Wendla's reaching hand found Melchior's. The sleeping girl stilled again almost instantly, her tense body relaxing as her fingers fumbled into that touch. Melchior's hand curled around hers instinctively, and the light grip seemed to soothe Wendla back into a deeper sleep. She sighed slightly, her lips moving for a moment though no sound emerged.

Fanny replaced the blankets, then turned and lifted the lid from the basket. A pair of eyes just the color of fresh green rows of corn blinked back at her, and she watched as a compact, nondescript tabby cat yawned uninterestedly and bent its head to wash a paw. Around it were curled four tiny sleeping balls of fur, and Fanny carefully lifted one kitten to examine it. Sleepy blue eyes opened to look at her, the animal dwarfed in her hands. It reached out a miniscule paw complete with threadlike, needle-sharp claws, and began to purr. Smiling, Frau Gabor put the kitten back in the basket. There were sure to be mice in the nearby woods if there weren't any in the barn, but she'd fetch some scraps to feed the mother cat anyway when she brought Melchior his dinner later.

She knew she needed to get back to her husband, but Fanny took one moment of silence to gaze once more at the sleeping children. The new, adult intensity on her son's face did not ease while he slept, though some of the worry lines softened back into smoothness, making him look more like the boy she remembered. His sleep-tousled curls were getting long—if he were still the son she'd always had at home with her, she would likely be thinking about cutting them soon. But so much had happened, cracking a deep gulf between them the moment she allowed his father to send him away. She didn't know, but she doubted that she would ever cut his hair again. It was such a small gesture, a mindless chore, but for some reason she didn't entirely understand, the thought of never doing it again filled her with a very poignant sort of grief.

And then, of course, there was Wendla to consider now. She looked at the child buried under the blankets, only her hand jutting out where Melchior now held it. Her hair had dried back into the long, fat curls the other girls so envied, and though it wanted brushing, it was clean and soft as Fanny stroked a hand through the dark strands. She was a beautiful child—had always been, to Fanny's mind. She remembered well that, when Wendla was born just shy of a year after Melchior, Otto had teased with Herr Bergmann about affiancing the children. Their fathers were such dear friends, once upon a time. In reality, though, neither Otto nor Fanny herself would have dictated their son's marriage options. Otto largely left the parenting to Fanny, and she had always firmly believed that Melchior needed to be free to make his own choices.

How tragically ironic, she thought now, that things had turned out this way. Melchior had in fact chosen the girl his father had once joked about him marrying, but the circumstances were anything but joyful. And Fanny herself, always the passionate defender of truth, had withheld that truth from her son in order to protect his future...with disastrous consequences. She didn't fault Melchior for blaming her, though she felt his reaction was fairly childish. He was devastated and hurting, he needed someone to lash out at, and she was the closest available option.

Once more she touched Wendla's hair, rubbing the smooth strands between her fingers. The girl was so young, and had been through so much. It really wasn't fair. Melchior had no business seducing her at such a tender age, regardless of the depth of his feelings. On top of which Wendla had the misfortune to become pregnant after what Fanny assumed was a single encounter—which would have earned Melchior bragging rights among the men in town had it happened appropriately: at an older age, and after marriage.

And then, for whatever reason, Wendla's mother had apparently decided to take her child somewhere and leave her with a person Melchior refused to name. By sheer luck, Martha had seen something that unnerved her to the point where she wrote to Melchior, warning him of Wendla's plight. Fanny lay a hand on the girl's hot cheek, stroking the flushed skin. It rattled her to think just how slight the chances were of Wendla's salvation from her unknown captor. If Martha hadn't been in the right place to see what she saw...if Fanny herself had stopped all of Melchior's mail instead of just letters from the Bergmanns...if Melchior hadn't believed Martha's warning...if he'd been caught while rescuing her... Of all possible outcomes, the current one seemed the least likely to Fanny. So many things had come together perfectly to create this slim window where Melchior had been able to extract Wendla from her captor's keeping and bring her home.

A soft noise broke into Frau Gabor's musings, and she raised her eyes to watch two of the kittens tumble out of their basket. They stepped cautiously into the loose hay, lifting their paws high, their fuzzy backs arched with caution as they began to explore their new home. One found the lace to Melchior's shoe and immediately started chewing with its needle-sharp little teeth. The mother cat leaped out of the basket and stalked carefully between the two sleeping human bodies. She sniffed the leg of Melchior's trousers, stretched luxuriously, and curled up on the edge of Wendla's quilt, looking entirely pleased with herself.

Frau Gabor smiled slightly. She hoped the two refugees hiding in her hayloft wouldn't mind their new companions. But her smile was not big, nor was it terribly happy. Tomorrow, she had decided. Tomorrow she had to speak with Frau Bergmann, before this went any farther. She didn't know yet what she would say to the other woman, or how much she was willing to disclose. She understood, too, that Melchior would be furious if anything happened that, in his mind, put Wendla back in danger. His trust at this point was nonexistent, and he was tolerating Fanny's presence not because he wanted to, but because he had no other choice. She understood that, and she did not want to disturb the tenuous acceptance she hoped was slowly building between herself and her son. He wasn't a baby anymore—wasn't the little boy she could coddle and remind to wash behind his ears. He hadn't been that boy for a while now, if she was truthful with herself, but this mess with him and Wendla and Moritz had cemented the transformation. He was not yet a man, but he would never be her little boy again. And she had to accept that, just as he needed to accept that she was a human being with flaws, a person who sinned and made mistakes just like everyone else. She wasn't perfect just because she was his mother. Once they could accept each other as these new people, she hoped that they would be able to rebuild some sort of meaningful relationship...though things would never be as they used to. The past was shattered, and they could never go back.

And Wendla was part of their future now, assuming she made it through this illness, as Fanny was confident she would. What would happen then, though, she didn't know. There was no way to guess just how damaged the child would be, or for how long. But Melchior had made his feelings abundantly clear, and Fanny knew better than to challenge him on this issue. If she wanted her son to remain part of her life, it would be with Wendla by his side. And really, she thought, was there anything so terribly wrong with that? He had found his love too early, and their courtship had begun in tragedy. But there was nothing at all objectionable about Wendla herself—unless her mother counted. She was a lovely girl with big dark eyes and a sunshine smile, and she had been friends with Melchior when they were small.

Fanny well remembered Wendla, Moritz, and Ilse spending endless afternoons with Melchior around the Gabor household when they were small, playing imaginative, tomboyish games and startling the goats with their antics. Ilse was a tall, raw-boned child, built much like a boy when she was young. So the part of the damsel in distress in their hero games usually fell to Wendla, who had always been tiny and fey, endowed with a quicksilver grace which caught the eye and held it even at such an early age. She said odd things, too, every once in a while, which Fanny had always suspected made Melchior like her. They had had very similar minds as small children—passionate and inquisitive, though they were both sweet and obliging. Looking back, Fanny thought she could now see the writing on the wall from a very young age. She'd thought nothing of it at the time—the children would grow apart, she'd assumed, as they started at separate schools and their lives became more ordered with age. She'd been right, too. For several years, she doubted Melchior had even once mentioned Wendla's name.

But something had happened to reunite them, and Frau Gabor decided that it didn't really matter now what had prompted the reconnection. The end result lay before her—two children in love, hurting, and very, very scared. If Frau Bergmann wasn't going to step up and be a proper, caring mother to her daughter, Fanny would take her place. For Melchior's sake, and for Wendla's. But she needed to know whether such an act was necessary. Some sort of reconciliation between Wendla and her mother might still be possible, and Fanny refused to get in the way of that. A mother's role was precious—not something to supplant on a whim. But Wendla badly needed a mother right now. She had Melchior's utter devotion, but it just wasn't enough. No matter how much he wanted to be, he just wasn't equipped to be everything she needed at this point. He hadn't known how to treat her fever, hadn't known what the bloody discharge between her legs meant or how to take care of it. When she woke, Fanny doubted he would know what to say. If Wendla had known she was pregnant, how would he break the news of the miscarriage to her? It was a fact of life, as Fanny had tried to explain to him. Adult women understood that. They grieved when it happened, but it wasn't the end of the world. Wendla, though...there was no telling how Wendla would react. Had she wanted this baby she wasn't equipped to care for? Or was she too scared and ashamed to even accept the reality of its presence? Would she feel relieved, perhaps? It would be impossible to tell until she woke. But Melchior was as inexperienced as she, and though his presence would likely soothe the girl, she would need the voice of experience to lead her through. In short, she needed a mother. _Her_ mother, if at all possible.

Frau Gabor leaned forward and gently rubbed her new cat's ear, obliging when the creature lifted its head to be scratched under the chin. There was so much they didn't know yet, but one thing was clear in her mind. Tomorrow she was going to visit Wendla's mother, though they did not get along. She needed to know what Frau Bergmann had known, and when she'd known it. Only then would she be able to decide what to do about Wendla.

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><p>Something tickled his face. Melchior blinked and raised his hand to push at whatever was bothering him, and instantly a chill shivered through him as he lost contact with Wendla's fingers. It was almost enough to make him jerk his hand back to find hers again, but the strange something tickled his nose and chin, and he reached up to brush it aside.<p>

Fuzzy fur drifted under his fingers, and he came in contact with a tiny, buzzing body. He blinked again and rubbed his eyes, sitting up cautiously. Yes, he was still in his hayloft, and Wendla was still sleeping more or less peacefully beside him. The sun had gone down but someone—his mother, he suspected—had left a lamp near the trapdoor. The oil burned cheerfully, bathing the large room with sweet, golden light.

And there was a kitten next to him, curled up right where Melchior's head had just been. It blinked sleepily at him, fuzzy orange fur lit up brightly by the yellow lamplight. Frowning, Melchior glanced around. A large wicker basket had been turned on its side in a corner, and a mother cat and three other kittens slept in and around it. His confused frown only deepened. His mother was not overly fond of cats, and they'd never kept any even as mousers. But these clearly weren't strays, as the basket attested.

Near the oil lamp sat another basket, and Melchior moved to examine its contents. He ached all over from the excessive amounts of walking he'd done the past several days, and his arms shook as he crawled toward the trapdoor. Wendla had not seemed heavy at the time, but he didn't have the physical strength of the day laborers who worked the fields as a living and his body was not happy about being overworked and under-rested. He was still exhausted, and he wanted nothing more than to lie down again with Wendla and sleep. But his mother had left him something, and if it had to do with Wendla's care, he needed to know what it was. So he fought back his own exhaustion and opened the basket, reaching in to pull out the contents.

The first thing his hands found was a large covered crockery bowl, still hot. He lifted it out, smelling the familiar, savory scent of his mother's potato and leek soup. It was cream-based, heavy and thick, and had always been one of his favorites. He smiled a little, grateful for the thought, though anything at this point would be better than reformatory food. Besides soup, there was thick, dark bread and a few of last fall's dried apples. And, to his surprise, at the bottom of the basket, he found something entirely unexpected.

Books. Three books found their way into his questing hands, one after the other. He held them up to the light, looking at the titles. Each was quite familiar to him, all having come from his family's library. All were books the reformatory had banned, claiming they were immoral and salacious. A book of American poetry—Walt Whitman's _Leaves of Grass_. Heinrich Heine's _Neue Gedichte._ And, almost like an apology, Goethe's _Faust. Der Tragödie erster Teil_. He well remembered having lent the second volume to Moritz, and it had not been returned after his friend's death. Nor was he anxious to be reunited with the book—not after all that had transpired. He could pick up another copy some other time, if he ever decided he needed one.

He held the third book in his hands, turning the hard green rectangle slowly in the lamplight. Faust had had a lover, as well, though he wooed her using the power of deceit and the devil. She had borne him an illegitimate child, then drowned it, and was eventually arrested and sentenced to death for her sins. It was not a pleasant story, but Melchior disliked the tale for reasons other than propriety. Goethe's detractors loathed the story because of its sinful content. Melchior was outraged on another level entirely.

And he could not read the story of Faust now, not with Wendla in such an uncomfortably close position to the tragic heroine. He inhaled the food his mother left, toying with the volume of Heine's poetry but not really reading. Wendla would never do what Faust's Gretchen had been pushed to do—of that he was certain. She was a tender, loving person, and though he didn't know how she felt about this lost baby, he knew she would never have done anything to harm it. It was a moot point now, but he was utterly certain that the loss of the child was not her fault. If she could have prevented the miscarriage, she would have. There was no doubt in his mind.

The orange kitten had moved while Melchior ate, curling up next to Wendla's cheek. He frowned again, still unsure where the cats had come from or why they were here. He put the books down, stifling a groan as he got to his feet. The little orange interloper was in his way. He picked the sleeping kitten up and returned it to the basket where the other cats slept, then lay back down beside Wendla. A cool evening breeze blew through the open window, and he decided to try slipping under the blankets with her. If she gave any indication that she did not want his presence, he would move away immediately.

Cautiously, Melchior lifted the blankets. Wendla lay on her side, tucked into a little ball as if shielding her soft belly and breasts. He slid under the blankets behind her, sitting still for a moment as he watched her sleep. From this angle he couldn't see much of her delicate face, but he carefully slipped his hand into her hair, drawing it away from her cheek and throat, letting the dark curls spill onto the bed of hay. He traced the intricate whorl of her ear with one fingertip, grazing the lightest of touches down her neck and over her shoulder. She looked even smaller than she really was, drowning in his nightshirt. His mother had left two others neatly folded next to the basket of food, but he wasn't about to change. If something happened to Wendla in the middle of the night, he needed to be dressed and able to help her.

Speaking of which... Melchior dipped a cup of water from the clean bucket and mixed in several spoonfuls of sugar. He cupped her head carefully in one hand and held the crockery cup to her lips with the other.

"I know you want to sleep," he said, whispering the words into the softness of the night. "I don't blame you, either. Just a sip, please."

She did not respond, and Melchior sighed quietly. He set the cup down and dipped his finger in the sugary water, then touched it gently to her slightly parted lips.

"It's just water," he murmured. "With a little sugar so it's sweet, like you. Drink a little—you liked it before." He teased his wet fingertip across her lips, rubbing the sugar softly along the tender skin. Dipping in just slightly further, he grazed the tip of her tongue. Moist velvet, just as it was when he kissed her.

Wendla's mouth moved slightly, her lips closing around his fingertip. He smiled and removed his hand, then dipped his finger again and offered it. "That's right," he said, tracing a line of sweetened water along her lower lip. Her head moved a little more, and he offered the cup. This time she drank, swallowing a cup of sugar water and then a cup of plain. Melchior badly wanted to continue feeding her until she wouldn't drink any more—her lips were still dry and cracked, and her face had taken on the odd sunken quality of someone who has been too long without water. But his mother had said only to give her small amounts every few hours, lest she was unable to keep it down. He understood, but he didn't like having to withdraw the cup and set it aside. He wanted to fill her full of all the food and water she could hold—wanted to scrub and rinse away the awful marks of what had been done to her beautiful body. He wanted to soothe her hurts in every way possible, then hold her tightly in his arms and never let go.

But it was all wishful thinking, as much as he hated to admit it. No amount of bathing could wash away the bruises or the memories, and food and water would have to be meted out in small doses. He wasn't even sure if he'd be able to hold her. She did not seem to mind his touch while she slept, but what would happen when she finally woke? Would she be too frightened to accept the touch of any man—or any person, for that matter? What would happen to the two of them if every hand on her skin reminded her of the awful days she'd spent at the mercy of Sonnenstich and his under-teachers?

"I won't leave you, Wendla," he said softly, lying down beside her in the gentle glow of the oil lamp. "No matter what happens when you wake, I'm not going anywhere." He curled his body carefully around hers, cautious of the worst of the bruising. She did not move away, did not appear in any way distressed, and Melchior breathed a sigh of relief. He slid his arms around her, settling himself delicately against her back and rubbing his nose in the soft fall of her dark hair. "We'll both sleep for a while, and the next time I offer you water, maybe you'll wake." He paused. "Even if you don't, would you like it if I read to you? My mother used to read to me when I was sick." He paused, and his face twisted in a grimace he didn't quite understand. "She brought us books. I don't know why she thought of it, but I'm grateful. Do the girls in this town learn English in school? I wish I knew more about your academics. Then I'd know what you'd like best to hear. There's a beautiful collection of American poetry I think you'd enjoy, if you understand the language."

Melchior felt himself slowly drifting downward into sleep, toward the beautiful darkness that eased his exhaustion and let him forget, even for a small while, all the worries that ate at his soul. He wouldn't ever follow Moritz's example of suicide, but he understood the draw of that silent darkness—of the cessation of worry and the embrace of peace. He smiled wanly. "The French call orgasm _la petit mort—_'the little death.' I rather think sleep is a more apropos example. So enjoy it, dear heart. The peace, the gentle darkness. When you wake, I'll be here beside you."

As Melchior slipped back into sleep, the little orange kitten began its trek back across the length of the hayloft to curl again next to Wendla's cheek.

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><p>She drifted. Sometimes there was pain—a dull ache or a more insistent surge of sensation that wracked her head and body, threatening to split her wide open. She was sweating as if she'd been working in the fields with the day laborers, and yet she couldn't seem to get warm. She clutched at every blanket given to her, huddling into the welcome weight of fabric against her skin. She'd been far too long without that comforting sensation, but her mind wasn't working well enough to tell her why. She had flashes of vivid, terrifying memories, but they were disjointed, surrounded by darkness and pain. Men whose faces she feared but couldn't place surrounded her, jeering. They held her down, prodded her body this way and that as if they wanted to pull her to pieces. Their cold voices were loud in her ears—sometimes too fast to catch the words, sometimes so slow they made her teeth ache. Never could she understand what they were saying. She begged and pleaded, the words falling from her cracked lips like prayers to a silent God. All she wanted was to understand why—why was this happening? What could they possibly want from her that they hadn't already taken?<p>

Sometimes warm, gentle hands touched her, stroking her hair or raising a cup to her mouth while a tender voice urged her to drink. She gulped water when it was offered—sometimes it stayed down and sometimes she retched it back up, her stomach refusing to accept any intrusion. She wasn't even sure, most of the time, whether the gentle hands were part of a particular dream or a more nebulous hallucination that floated to her from time to time, filling the dark spaces between her nightmares.

But slowly, slowly things began to change. It was a subtle shift, like spring to summer, the fields greening and strengthening so smoothly that you almost missed the transformation. The pain did not so much abate as it turned into discrete sensations as she flowed more and more toward consciousness. Her gut ached and cramped, the exhausted muscles clenching and bearing down in unrelenting waves. Her skin stung and burned, particularly her backside and breasts, and even the gentle brush of cloth was uncomfortable. She couldn't lay on her back or her front; the pressure was too painful. Instead she curled on one side or another, shifting as little as possible. The pain in her head slowly lessened, though it did not entirely recede, and with the reduction in pain came greater awareness. So much so that the next time the gentle voice spoke, she recognized it.

"I told you. No."

Melchior. The name bled through her mind, lighting the dark corners of hazy memory that fever had obscured. _Melchior_. She knew him, and she knew this place. She inhaled slowly, and for the first time recognized the sweet, earthy smell of hay. The combination of that smell and his voice instantly centered and grounded her, and she knew exactly where she was. She had no idea how she'd gotten here, but she was in his parents' hayloft. With him. Instantly a warm feeling of safety engulfed her. This was a good place. She knew that, and for the moment nothing else mattered.

"Son, I know you don't trust Frau Bergmann, but she has a right to know where her daughter is. Can't you see we owe her at least that?"

"No," Melchior repeated firmly. "No one can know where she is. Until she wakes, I don't trust anyone. Especially not her mother." He paused; the voice stopped for a moment, and she found herself wishing fervently that it would come back. The soft sound of his words was immensely soothing. "Besides," he said, "I think she's a little cooler today."

"It's wishful thinking, son."

She knew that voice, too, though not nearly so well. It was Melchior's mother, Fanny Gabor. She'd always rather liked Frau Gabor. Melchior's mother was a kind woman, though she and Frau Bergmann did not get along.

Her back was aching in this position, and she shifted slowly. She let out a soft sigh and turned over, settling on her other side.

"There, you see? She's moving much more today, and I don't even have to help her turn. I really do think she's getting better."

"Son—"

"Wait."

A soft, familiar hand touched her cheek, and she found her mouth curving up in a gentle smile. Her dry lips cracked and split, but the pain was negligible compared to the sensation of the hand gently stroking her skin.

"_Wendla_. Look—she's smiling. It's small, but it's there."

The name connected in her mind, bringing yet another layer of consciousness back. Yes, she was Wendla. That was her name. She'd always thought it was maybe a slightly silly name, but she loved how Melchior said it. From his mouth, anything sounded good.

A different hand touched her face, and firmer fingers gripped her chin, turning her head carefully. "Her lip is bleeding," Frau Gabor's voice murmured. "How have you been managing with the water?"

"I offer it every few hours. Sometimes she keeps it down, sometimes she doesn't."

"Food?"

"Nothing so far."

"Mm. I didn't expect it, but it never hurts to ask." The firmer hand touched her mouth, a thumb wiping at the wetness Wendla suspected was blood.

"Wendla," Melchior said softly. She turned her head slightly toward the sound of his voice. It was so beautiful. She wanted to hear him say something again. Her entire body hurt and she was still cold, but the gentle croon of his words soothed the hurt as they feathered into her ears. "She moved," he breathed. "She heard me."

"You don't know that. It could be a coincidence."

The gentler hand touched her cheek, and Wendla shifted to increase the contact. This was Melchior's hand—she knew it purely by feel. No other touch could ever make her feel as peaceful, as safe. "She's waking." The anxious excitement made his voice tremble. "Wendla. Wendla, can you hear me? It's time to wake up, _liebling_. If you can hear me, dear heart, try to open your eyes. Can you do that for me?"

Could she? She hadn't really thought about it. The darkness seemed omnipresent anyway—she remembered the pitch black terror of that basement, of absolutely no difference between open and closed eyes. The chill of that subterranean room had seeped into her bones and the darkness had overwhelmed her mind. She didn't know if she could ever fight her way free of either.

But she wasn't there anymore. Even without her eyes she knew that. Somehow, by some miracle, Melchior had found and rescued her. Her nose told her she was in his hayloft, and her ears and skin told her that both Melchior and his mother were with her. And while she really only wanted Melchior, she didn't begrudge Frau Gabor. This was her property, after all.

Slowly, Wendla began focusing her energy on opening her eyes. Melchior had asked her to, and his voice as he did so was too beautiful and beseeching. She had to try. Besides, she wanted to see him. To reassure herself that he was, in fact, with her.

Her eyelids felt like they'd been stuck together with glue. Her eyes were rough like sand, and she scrunched up her face in distaste as she struggled with this one seemingly simple task. Slowly her lids parted, and she squinted blearily into the dark golden shadows of the hayloft. The window was open, and the scent of a summer afternoon wafted in on a gentle wind. Her hair fluttered, lifting slightly.

"Wendla," Melchior breathed. "_Liebling_, you're awake."

She shifted her unfocused gaze, lighting finally on the face she had longed for. Her vision swam, but she knew it was him. He leaned toward her, his movements cautious and slow, and his beautiful blue eyes came into focus. With a dry sob, she reached for him.

In an instant she was in his arms, taken quickly but carefully up from her bed in the hay. She breathed in the smell of him—boy and sweet hay and a little bit of sweat—and stared at the fall of his tousled curls around the nape of his neck as he held her close. She was still in pain, still bleary and confused, but an overwhelming sense of peace filled her the instant his arms closed around her. This was what she'd been dreaming of—praying and hoping for, each hour spent in that terrible basement with those awful men. She hadn't wanted her mama—not after what she considered her mother's deep betrayal. No; she'd wanted Melchior. Thoughts of him kept her from giving up and giving in, so many times. She'd stayed strong, holding out hope for this moment.

Now it was here. She was safe in his arms, and she wasn't letting go. Not ever again.

"Thank God," she heard him murmur against her hair. "Thank God." And he was an atheist. She really must have had him worried.

"Quite." Fanny Gabor's voice broke through the warm haze of reunion and Wendla hesitantly lifted her head, blinking her blurry eyes at Melchior's mother. She couldn't see the other woman's expression, but when a firm hand touched her head, stroking her hair, she knew it couldn't be terribly bad. "Welcome back, child. You gave us quite a scare."

Wendla rested her head against Melchior's shoulder and closed her eyes. The light hurt, and she was a little dizzy. She felt him press a kiss to her hair and she had to smile, though the gesture reopened the bleeding crack in her lip. She wasn't sure how she'd gotten here, or what Melchior or his mother wanted from her, but none of it mattered. As long as neither one of them were angry with her—as they seemed not to be—she didn't care. She was safe for the first time in days. "Melchior," she murmured, wanting to hear his name. Her mouth was dry and her tongue clumsy, but she managed.

"Yes. It's me. I'm here."

Wendla nodded slightly against his shoulder. She didn't even want to know how he'd managed to find her. Not now. She wanted nothing more than to feel his arms around her, to know that he was still hers despite what had happened to her. If he'd rescued her from that awful place, he had to have seen what the teachers had done to her. If he was still holding her now, his arms firm and comforting, that must mean he didn't blame her, didn't look down on her for what she'd been forced to endure. Right? Wasn't that what it had to mean?

"Wendla, baby, I know you just woke up, but we have some questions that, unfortunately, only you can answer."

"Not right now." Melchior's voice was granite. "Let her rest. Everything can wait."

"I'm going to see her mother in church this afternoon, son. I have to know what to say."

"Say nothing."

"Wendla, child. Look at me, if you can."

Wendla turned her head slightly and forced her eyes open. Her sight was still bleary, but she blinked several times and Frau Gabor came into slightly better focus.

"Don't," Melchior warned, and his arms tightened around her.

"I'm not going to do anything except ask her opinion," Frau Gabor said. "She can give us that, at the very least." She reached out a gentle hand and touched Wendla's cheek. "I'm glad you're awake, and I know you must be very tired and confused right now. I promise not to overburden you with questions, but I do need one answer from you."

"I don't think—" Melchior began, but Wendla nodded softly against his shoulder.

"Good," Frau Gabor said, and Wendla could just make out the smile on the older woman's face. In truth, she didn't want to answer any questions—didn't even really know if she could. All she wanted was to stay right where she was in Melchior's arms and listen to him talk. His voice was her lifeline, pulling her from the darkness and back into the light. But Frau Gabor was Melchior's mother—an adult—and Wendla was on her property. She was terrified that the woman might send her back if she didn't comply, and she was willing to answer any question—do anything—to stay with Melchior.

"Child, this is all I'm going to ask you. I am going to see your mother this afternoon. I need to know whether you want her to know where you are. Would you like to see her—to talk to her?"

Wendla shook her head emphatically, her eyes widening in terror even as dizziness overtook her. She buried her head against Melchior's shoulder again and tightened her arms around him, digging into the meat of his muscles with her frightened fingers. A scared sound she barely recognized escaped her throat, and she pressed as close as she could to the firm comfort of his body. Her bruised and battered form hurt when she held it against him, but she didn't care. The physical pain was nothing compared to the terror of separation. If Frau Gabor told her mama where she was, she wouldn't be safe. Her mama would certainly come to fetch her, and what if she then sent her straight back to Herr Sonnenstich? Wendla didn't think she could survive another stint in that man's keeping.

"Hush," Melchior soothed, his arms closing tightly around her. It hurt, but it felt so good at the same time. The way he held her was nothing like the hard, unyielding hands of Sonnenstich and the other teachers. She pushed her nose into a fold of his shirt, breathing him in deeply. "It's okay, _liebling_," Melchior murmured quietly, his hands broad and open as they held her. "You're safe here with me. Nobody has to know. Please, just calm down. You're safe, dear heart. You're safe."

A long sigh left Frau Gabor's mouth. "All right," she said. "Okay. I won't tell her—for now. This can't go on indefinitely, but we can wait a while until you're feeling better."

The older woman did not sound altogether pleased with this plan, but Wendla couldn't quite dredge up the will to care. She never wanted to see her mama again, and she would fight anyone who tried to make her. At least Melchior seemed to be on her side, and that set her at ease. He wouldn't make her do something she didn't want to do. She trusted him—nobody else. Only he had witnessed what she'd gone through in Sonnenstich's basement. Only he could truly understand how terrified she was of being sent back there.

As if he could read her mind, Melchior's gentle voice spoke, words feathering close in her ears. "Just you and me, Wendla. It's just you and me from now on, and I'm going to make sure no one ever hurts you again."

They were the words she'd ached to hear ever since he was sent away to the reformatory and she was left alone. Tears of relief spilled silently from her closed eyes, and she turned her head further into his embrace.

* * *

><p><em>AN: Frau Bergmann reappears next chapter...just a warning... And more reviews might just equal less danger from her. ;-)_


	9. Chapter 9

_A/N: Hi, duckies. I usually won't update twice in one week, but I decided to give you this chapter early for one very good reason. Here goes: There is no Melchior or Wendla anywhere in this chapter. None at all. The next chapter will be what you've been waiting for: only the two of them, nobody else. But we needed to get at least some of the altercation with Frau Bergmann out of the way first (she's not gone after this chapter, but at least we know a little more about where she stands). _

_Major thanks to northstar61 and androgenius for their help with this chapter! Your insights into Frau Bergmann's character were invaluable!_

_All standard disclaimers apply._

* * *

><p><strong>Kindheit Ende<strong>

The late afternoon sun was bright and hot, the air a little muggy as Frau Gabor walked quickly through town, intent on her purpose. She had two stops to make today, neither of which she was particularly looking forward to. But her tasks had to be accomplished, and she needed to get home before Otto. He still knew nothing about the children currently residing in his hayloft, and she needed it to stay that way. Though Wendla had woken earlier in the afternoon, she was in no shape to be moved or put through any sort of stressful situation. Her fever had not broken, and after being coaxed to swallow a little soup and water and aspirin, she'd drifted back to sleep in the circle of Melchior's arms.

Fanny Gabor was not happy with the girl's fervent desire to keep her mother away, though she supposed she really couldn't blame her. Not when it was so unclear just what Frau Bergmann had known and how complicit she might be in her daughter's recent ordeal. The poor child had reacted to the mention of her mother with utter terror, which did not bode well for any attempt at reconciliation. Fanny tightened her jaw and hitched her basket further up her arm. Hopefully the confrontation she aimed to have with Wendla's mother this afternoon would clear up at least some of the holes in her knowledge of the situation. There was no telling just how much Frau Bergmann would be willing to divulge about her part in this terrible set of events, but Fanny hoped for the best. She always prided herself on being an optimist, after all.

As she approached the fussily manicured front of the Bergmann house, Fanny took a deep breath. She had a plan, she told herself firmly. She had an approach, and she knew more or less what she was going to say. Of course, it all depended on how Frau Bergmann responded. They had never been good friends, or even terribly courteous to each other, but for the sake of their children Fanny was willing to try. Melchior meant more to her than anything else in the world, and Wendla was important to him. For them, she was willing to do just about anything.

She knocked firmly on the front door, throwing her shoulders back and swallowing another steadying breath. Confidence, she reminded herself. Confidence was the key to this plan succeeding.

The door opened, and the moment Frau Bergmann caught sight of her visitor, her lined face settled into an expression of deep discontent. "Frau Gabor," she said stiffly.

Fanny did not miss the fact that she wasn't welcomed into the house, but she pushed past the other woman anyway. "Frau Bergmann," she said, her greeting no less hostile. "I came to see Wendla."

An uneasy silence settled over the room. Fanny watched as Wendla's mother clenched her hands together tightly.

"I know you've told the town she's suffering from anemia and that's why she hasn't been out of the house. Frankly, I don't really care—the lies you choose to tell are your own business. But that baby in her belly is my grandchild as much as it is yours, and I want to speak to Wendla."

"She's asleep," Frau Bergman said tightly. "She hasn't been feeling well, and she needs her rest."

Oh, if the woman only knew how horribly true that statement was, Fanny thought. It didn't really surprise her that Wendla's mother was attempting to lie about the girl's whereabouts; she hadn't honestly expected any different. The question was whether Frau Bergmann thought her daughter was still with her unknown assailant or knew by now that Wendla was missing.

"Well, she can wake up for this," Fanny pressed. "It's important. I've decided to bring Melchior home when this term ends, which means he'll be back before Christmas. He'll want to see her, and at that point it will be impossible to hide the pregnancy from him. We need to decide what we're going to do."

Frau Bergmann's expression darkened. "That boy is not welcome in my house or near my daughter. He's ruined her life—her future! I don't care what you tell him, but he's not ever going to see her again."

"Let's be realistic here," Fanny tried to argue, holding onto her temper by the thinnest of threads. "The girl _had_ no future to begin with—just like her friends don't, and you and I didn't. She was always meant to do exactly what she's done—fall in love and have babies. Yes, the children made a mistake. Yes, they did it too early, and in a way you don't approve of. But don't you dare delude yourself that she had some bright, shining future ahead of her that's now somehow gone. Melchior's future is the one in jeopardy. He was supposed to go to university! To make something of himself! How do you think his father and I feel, knowing those things will likely never happen now?"

"That's the whole point of this visit, isn't it?" Frau Bergmann demanded, folding her arms defensively over her chest. "Your husband and mine were such good friends, but you always looked down on me for having daughters instead of sons. That's what this is all about, even still. Your golden boy seduced my little girl—warped her mind, deluded her with dreams that will never come true! Yet there you stand, making excuses for him even now."

"I'm not making excuses for Melchior's actions," Fanny insisted. "He knows what he did was wrong." In actuality, she wasn't at all sure that last part was true. Melchior had never once shown the slightest remorse for his decision to lay with Wendla—only for the tragic results and inevitable fallout. She suspected that, if she asked him, he would likely admit no wrongdoing other than allowing his parents to send him away from the girl. "But he's willing to make amends. He loves your daughter. He'll marry her. I can't promise it will be easy for any of us, but in time, we'll be able to work past this." There was another half-truth buried in that speech, and Fanny said a silent prayer of apology for the lie. Melchior hadn't actually said anything about marrying Wendla, but he'd made it abundantly clear that he was staying by her side. And if that was what he truly wanted, he was going to have to marry her. There was no in-between—though the child was gone, Wendla still carried the mark of censure for what she and Melchior had done. To start to recover her life and her reputation, she needed to marry. While Melchior hated the trappings of church and society, this was one he was going to have to embrace if he wanted to keep his love.

"He's not marrying my daughter." Frau Bergmann's voice was low and dangerous. "He's never laying a hand on her again!"

"Don't you think Wendla ought to have some say in that decision?"

"No. She's proven beyond a doubt that she can't be trusted to make good decisions, especially where that boy is concerned. The choice isn't hers to make now—it's mine."

"Your husband wouldn't at all approve of what you're doing, you know."

"My husband is dead!" Frau Bergmann snapped. "I'm here, and I'm the one making the choice for my daughter."

"Let me see her, at least."

"I already said no."

A long, tense moment of silence passed between the women. Fanny had gathered enough information now to understand that there would be no easy reconciliation about the children's future. But that had only been a tangential worry when she made the decision to approach Wendla's mother. The difficult part still lay ahead.

"Let's stop pretending, please," she said, trying to make her voice as quiet and firm as possible. "You and I both know that your daughter is not upstairs in her bed, and I'd like very much if we could move past the falsehoods."

Frau Bergmann faltered, mincing backward a half step. "I'm sure I have no idea what you mean. Wendla is ill—she hasn't been out of the house in weeks."

"That's not true, and you know it." Fanny opened the flat lid of her basket and drew out an armful of fabric. "You took or sent her somewhere—I don't yet know where, or to whom. But this was the result." She shook out the material, holding it up to the late afternoon light streaming through the windows. The long, flowing apron was stiff with blood, crusted in areas where the thick red liquid had seeped through several folds of fabric.

Silence reigned.

Fanny held the apron out in front of her, hardly breathing. She'd had no idea what reaction to expect from Wendla's mother, but silence wasn't it. Frau Bergmann was _never_ this quiet.

The woman's face went white, as if all the blood had suddenly rushed to her feet. She stepped back again, and her mouth opened and closed several times like a fish on a line, gasping for breath. Her eyes widened for a long, tense moment, and then she shut them tightly.

"How dare you?" Frau Bergmann whispered. "How _dare_ you bring that...that unsightly thing into my house?"

Fanny lowered the blood-soaked apron. "Maybe you don't understand what I'm trying to tell you. Your daughter—"

"Oh, I know perfectly well the insidious thing you're trying to insinuate," Frau Bergmann snapped. "Really, what kind of a mother are you, bringing that _thing_ into my house and trying to tell me that...that filth somehow came from my daughter? For all I know, it's from a pig you slaughtered."

"My parenting skills aren't the ones being questioned," Fanny said stiffly, attempting to keep her temper under control. "What kind of mother are you—that's the real question, if you insist on standing here and still pretending that Wendla is asleep in her bed upstairs when you and I both know she's not."

"Whether she is or isn't—it's none of your concern!" Frau Bergmann threw up her hands and turned away. "Get that wretched thing out of my sight!"

"No." Fanny stepped forward and deliberately draped the stained apron across the arm of one of Frau Bergmann's fancy parlor chairs. "Did you know? Damn it, woman—did you know what he was going to do to her? It's my concern, whether you like it or not, because Melchior loves your little girl and I love my son."

"Get out!"

"Not without some answers. What were you so afraid of? What could possibly have led you to condone the type of abuse that would cause this much damage?" She paused. "Did you even know she wasn't there anymore? Whoever he is, did he tell you she went missing?"

Frau Bergmann refused to turn around. "Get out of my house."

"No," Fanny repeated. "Was it the doctor two towns over? The one with the clandestine abortion practice? Is that where you sent her?"

Frau Bergmann did not answer.

Fanny pressed on. "Because that's what I thought at first, but I quickly decided otherwise. She hasn't spoken about her ordeal yet, but her body is thoroughly broken. Do you want me to describe for you exactly how she looks—the wounds, the unmistakable evidence of a cruelty so dire I've never before seen its like?"

"You're exaggerating," Wendla's mother said, rounding abruptly on Fanny. "If there's any truth to what you're saying at all, it's vastly exaggerated. She was there to learn a lesson. I don't know how she managed to slip away, but if you're harboring her, that's kidnapping. Coddling her won't do anything but make the lesson harder to learn."

"I can assure you with utter truth that Wendla is not in my house," Fanny said. Cold fury filled her, for Wendla's sake. "What possible lesson could anyone attempt to instill with that level of abuse? Fear? Of everything—everyone? Is that what you hoped to achieve?"

"Where is she?" Frau Bergmann demanded. "She may not be in your house, but if you know where she is, you have an obligation to send her home. I'm her mother. I decide what lessons and punishments are permissible, not you."

"Send her home?" Fanny laughed darkly. "The child can't even walk right now, she's that badly injured. Although I suspect you and your accomplice achieved at least one of your objectives. She's miscarrying as we speak."

Frau Bergmann closed her eyes. "Thank God for small miracles."

Fanny clenched a fist tightly around the basket handle. She wasn't happy about the baby either, but for that response to be the only one Frau Bergmann had to this news of her daughter... They'd never been friends, and now Fanny thought she understood why. They were nothing alike, regardless of the fact that both of them had grown up in the same town and married best friends. While it was really better for everyone involved that Wendla miscarried, there was no way she'd react as Wendla's mother now was. "I doubt," she said tightly, "that God had anything to do with it."

"Send my daughter back to me," Frau Bergmann demanded. "She can't possibly be hurt as badly as you make out. She's always had a flair for the dramatic—I wouldn't believe half of what she says."

"She's said nothing about her ordeal, dramatic or otherwise, and after seeing the physical scars of what's been done, I've a mind to believe just about anything. The only thing she's said so far is that she doesn't want to see you."

"That isn't her choice to make!"

"Frankly, right now I think it is. She isn't in my house, and you don't know where she is. There's a good chance you'll never find her unless she decides to come to you."

"You tell her that her mother orders her to come home!"

"I won't. She's hurt, and you don't seem to realize or care just how badly. I was considering taking you to see her, but your response has shown me that it's clearly not in Wendla's best interest to do so. I'm sorry, Frau Bergmann, that it had to come to this—truly I am. But as of right now, it may be best for you to start getting used to the fact that you don't have a younger daughter anymore."

* * *

><p>Fanny breathed a sigh of relief as she left the Bergmann house and continued on toward her second errand of the day. This one wouldn't be nearly as difficult, she hoped.<p>

Adrenaline from the encounter with Wendla's mother still ran high in her veins, and Fanny Gabor breathed deeply, trying to calm herself. Her hands were shaking slightly, and she clasped them in front of her, the lightened basket hanging from her forearm. She'd deliberately left the apron exactly where it was, draped across one of Frau Bergmann's parlor chairs. It was ruined as a garment anyway, and she hoped it might serve as some sort of reminder to Wendla's mother.

Fanny was unsure just how much of Frau Bergmann's refusal to admit the truth was for show and how much was real. She'd always been more concerned with appearances than Fanny, but there was no real way to tell what that actually meant in terms of her denial. Did she really think the bloody apron was just a trick—a diversionary tactic? She seemed to accept the fact that Wendla was no longer in the clutches of her accomplice, but there were still a great many questions left unanswered. She claimed Wendla was sent away to learn a lesson, but the contents of that lesson were never revealed. How much of the lesson-master's tactics had the mother known about beforehand? Was she thoroughly complicit, or was she simply unwilling to admit—to herself or to Fanny—that the decision to send Wendla away had been a bad one? The answers might never come, unless Wendla knew and was willing to tell.

But the meeting had made at least one thing abundantly clear to Fanny. Wendla was her burden now—hers and Melchior's. Frau Bergmann could not be trusted, and they would do well at this time to keep Wendla from her mother. Since that seemed to be the girl's wish anyway, Fanny didn't feel too guilty. Far better to anger the mother than endanger the child and risk alienating Melchior again because of it.

As she neared her second stop, Fanny tried to push her dismal meeting with Frau Bergmann out of her mind. This task would also be unpleasant, though she hoped not nearly so bad. She climbed the stairs and opened the door of the church, knowing the children would all be in their youth groups at this time of day.

A quick word with Pastor Kahlbauch, and Fanny Gabor was seated in a quiet corner with Martha, well away from prying ears. She took the girl's hands in her own and squeezed them.

"Thank you," she said simply. "That was a very brave thing you did, writing to Melchior for Wendla's sake."

Martha seemed nervous, but at the mention of her friend she lit with cautious curiosity. "Is she all right?" she asked quickly, glancing around surreptitiously as if afraid someone would overhear.

But there was no one to hear, and Fanny squeezed the hands held in hers once again. "She's badly hurt and sick with fever, but she's safe with Melchior right now. Physically, she'll recover."

"I was so afraid when I saw her, Frau Gabor. Please don't be mad at me or tell my mother! I just didn't know who else to turn to."

"Under the circumstances, I think you did exactly right. I won't breathe a word to anyone, I promise."

Martha relaxed visibly. "Thank you."

Fanny smiled. "I wanted to talk to you about something else, too. Child, I know your home life is...difficult, shall we say? I'm sorrier for that than I can express to you."

Martha's face closed over and she hunched forward, dropping Fanny's hands and curling in on herself. Her two shining braids fell over her shoulders. "I don't know what you mean," she whispered, in a voice that stated very plainly otherwise.

"There's no need to play innocent, child. There's no one here but me, and I've heard it from both Melchior and your mother. She's sorry, you know. She's going to have to live with the guilt of what she lets your father do for the rest of her life, and no one can help her with that."

Martha did not answer. Frau Gabor took her hand once more and gently pushed the long sleeve up to her elbow. On the tender meat of the girl's forearm, just as she'd suspected, she found a raised, painful-looking welt. Martha's breath hitched, but Fanny continued to hold her hand. She reached into her basket with her free hand and extracted a small container of salve. As she spoke, she rubbed some gently into the painful-looking skin.

"I wish there was a place to report this kind of ill-treatment. Unfortunately, the law is very clear. A man has jurisdiction over his household, and what he chooses to do is his own business. It's not right, but that's the way it is."

"I know," Martha whispered. "Pastor Kahlbauch has tried to speak to him. He says it's a sin against God, but papa won't listen."

"That doesn't surprise me. Men like that, Martha, do whatever they need to in order to rationalize their actions in their minds." She finished with the salve and took the girl's hands again. "I wish there was more I could do to help you. Melchior and I owe you an immense debt for what you did for Wendla."

"You don't owe me anything, Frau Gabor. It was the right thing to do—like the story of the Good Samaritan in the Bible."

"You'll learn as you get older, child, just how many people neglect to take that story to heart." She paused. "Moritz Stiefel wrote me a beautiful letter before he died. He confessed that his parents had disowned him after he failed out of school, and he begged me for financial assistance so he could flee to America. I didn't believe his threat of suicide, and I refused his request. That will always be my guilt to bear. Moritz is now past any help but God's, but I can help you. Did you ever feel as he did—wish to get away?"

"Every day," Martha confessed quietly. "But I'd never do it."

"Why not?"

"Moritz was a boy. I'm a girl." She twisted her hands in her lap, ducking her head again. "I can't just leave home by myself and expect to be all right. Moritz could have found a job and a place to live, but a girl on her own is worse than dead. Look at Ilse—she says she's happy, but for how long? When the artists get tired of painting her, what will she do then?" She shook her head a little. "Besides, I want to get married. I dream of that day—I'll be in white, and my papa will walk me down the aisle of this church because he won't be able to do anything to stop it. The moment he gives me to my husband, I'll be free." Martha raised her face, and the hope in her eyes was so bright that Fanny didn't dare douse it. There was always the possibility that Martha's future husband might be as cruel as her father—or that she might never marry, and remain at his mercy for the rest of her life. But she could not look into those innocent eyes, dreaming of a future without pain, and dash those hopes.

"Can I tell you something?" Martha whispered.

"Of course, child." Fanny reached out and took her hand again.

"I loved Moritz." Color rose in the girl's cheeks. "Everyone else loves Melchior—he's the best at everything, after all. But there was something...something sweet and sleepy about Moritz. I always thought he would make a good husband, kind and gentle. He never knew, but I would have gone with him to America in a heartbeat if he asked me."

Fanny smiled. "I've no doubt he would have been a good match for you. He would have been much like my Otto, I suspect, though even more gentle. Content to let you run the house, wanting nothing more than to be loved and taken care of."

"I would have done that," Martha whispered. "I would gladly have done that."

"That makes me feel even better about what I'm going to do." Fanny squeezed the girl's hand again. "Martha, I can't remove you from your parents' house. God knows I wish I could; no one deserves to live the way you are forced to. But I'm going to do for you what I didn't do for Moritz. The money he requested to go to America is yours. You can use it however you wish—to leave, or as a dowry if you find it necessary. Whatever you decide to do with it, it's yours. And when the time comes, if you're still in town, I'll make sure your wedding is as beautiful as any girl could wish."

Martha's eyes flooded with tears, and she threw her arms around the older woman. "Thank you, Frau Gabor," she whispered. "Thank you."

"I only wish I could do more." Fanny squeezed Martha before releasing her. "I will never be able to right the wrong I did Moritz, and I owe you a great deal for your selfless act of writing to Melchior."

"Will he and Wendla be all right?" Martha asked hesitantly. "What's going to happen?"

"I suspect that they will marry soon. For now, they're safe where Frau Bergmann won't be able to find them." She paused, a thought occurring to her. "Child, you saw what happened. Melchior's been so worried about Wendla—and rightly so—that he hasn't had much time to explain where she was being held, and who took her there."

"It was her mother," Martha said, glancing around again, searching for listening ears. "Frau Bergmann was hurrying her along through town, and Wendla looked so frightened that I had to follow."

Fanny felt something inside run cold. She'd more or less expected as much, but hearing her fears confirmed was distinctly unpleasant nonetheless. Wendla's mother had indeed been the one to turn her daughter over to a monster's keeping. "Where did she take her?" she pressed. If they were on foot and Martha had easily followed, that narrowed the possibilities dramatically. It was also cause for more worry—whoever had used the child so badly lived in their town. He walked among them every day.

Martha hesitated for a moment before answering. "To Herr Sonnenstich," she said finally. "The school headmaster."

* * *

><p><em>AN: For those who don't compulsively watch bootleg copies like me (cough), yes, in canon Martha does express a preference for Moritz while the rest of her friends moon over Melchior. I know most people here seem to like to pair Ilse with Moritz, but I chose to give 'im to Martha this time around. Mainly because the actress who plays Ilse in the OBC seems like kind of a bitch to me, I suspect._

_So, yes, the next chapter will be Melchior and Wendla finally getting some alone (and awake) time. I can't promise it'll be happy - they have to have the conversation about the miscarriage, after all. But it will be just the two of them getting some of the comfort they've been long denied. _


	10. Chapter 10

A/N: Hi, all. Sorry this took longer than usual to post. Things are a little crazy at home right now, on top of which Melchior was_ not_ cooperating with me, so blame him! All standard disclaimers apply. The poetry in this chapter is from the aforementioned Heinrich Heine book _Neue Gedichte._The translation is my own and I am not a professional, so I take full responsibility for any and all mistakes.

Also, for those of you who follow Glee as well, this is posted in tribute to St. Berry Week, which I have declared this week as my mini-protest against all things Finchel. Yes, I know, Melchior/Wendla is not the same thing as St. Berry, but sometimes my muse doesn't give me a choice in the matter.

* * *

><p><strong>Kindheit Ende<strong>

_Die schönen Augen der Frühlingsnacht,_ [The beautiful eyes of a spring night,]  
><em>Sie schauen so tröstend nieder:<em> [They shine so comfortingly down:]  
><em>Hat dich die Liebe so kleinlich gemacht,<em> [If you have made your love grow small (petty),]  
><em>Die Liebe, sie hebt dich wieder. <em>[Love, it lifts you back.]

_Auf grüner Linde sitzt und singt_ [By the green linden sits and sings]  
><em>Die süße Philomele;<em> [The sweet Philomela;]  
><em>Wie mir das Lied zur Seele dringt,<em> [As a song penetrates to my soul,]  
><em>So dehnt sich wieder die Seele.<em> [It stretches the soul again.]

"It's gone, isn't it?"

Melchior blinked slowly and set the book of poetry aside. He'd thought she was asleep again—all afternoon and evening Wendla had dozed on and off, waking for small amounts of time but never really saying much. She was still hot, and he hadn't been entirely sure how lucid she was after that first brief interaction when she initially woke.

Now she was tucked in the circle of his arms, her back pressed to his front, her dark curls tickling his cheek, and she was asking him a question he didn't want to answer. Not now—not when she was still so sick. She felt fragile in his arms, small and delicate, and he desperately did not want to have this conversation now. He'd hoped to wait at least another day or two, giving her time to begin to heal. But he couldn't possibly lie to her, and there was no way to brush aside the question. Closing his eyes, Melchior nodded softly into her hair.

"Yes," he said, tightening his arms around her. A sudden, intense ache twisted inside his chest. Through all the worry about Wendla, he hadn't really had time to think much about their shared loss. Now it burned, guilt settling heavily on his shoulders. Yes, he'd rescued his love from a horrible ordeal. But he hadn't been quick enough to save their unborn child, and they would forever have to live with that knowledge. It was a pain he wished he could take solely on himself, sparing Wendla, though he knew the desire was in vain. Perhaps even more than he, she would have to bear the grief of this loss.

She was still in his arms, and Melchior held his breath, listening for the telltale catch of air that meant she was holding back tears. Yes, there it was. He tightened his grip, not knowing any other way to give comfort. No words would soothe this ache, and there was no medicine to dull it.

She jerked, a single spasm rocking her body as a sharp noise of pain was torn from her mouth. Instantly Melchior loosened his hold again, his eyes opening wide as he tried to pull away. "God, I'm sorry," he breathed. "Wendla, I'm so, so sorry—I just wanted to—I didn't mean to hurt—"

"Don't let me go," she whimpered, and she turned toward him and buried herself against his chest. "Please, it hurts but you can't let me go."

He drew her close again, stroking one hand down her back, careful not to squeeze so tightly. "I'll never let go," he promised. "But I don't want to ever hurt you."

She pressed close against him, but not nearly as fiercely as he'd squeezed her. "Don't let me go," she repeated.

"Never." He kissed her damp forehead and the soft fall of her curls. If she wanted to be held, he would hold her. If she wanted to feel safe and secure, he'd do everything in his power to make that happen. Anything to make her feel better.

Unfortunately, he didn't think there was anything he could do make this grieving process any easier.

"I dreamed about it," she whispered after a moment. There were tears in her voice and Melchior felt the wet touch of them against his neck as he let her tuck herself under his chin and hide there. "The baby. While I was in that horrible place. I didn't know if I would ever see you again, but I tried to be strong anyway. For it—for him. I always hoped he was a boy."

"Wendla..." He had no words. Nothing he could possibly say would help her now.

"Why, Melchior?"

He took a deep breath and held it, burying one hand in her dark curls. The smooth, cool fall of hair against his fingers was immensely reassuring, but it didn't help him find the words to soothe her. There was no good answer to her question. "Why what?"

"Why did they have to take him from me? I know I wasn't supposed to have him, but he was mine. _Mine_." Her body jerked against his with the force of her cry as the wall gave way and she broke, a raw sound of pure pain torn from her throat. "I thought he was the one person they couldn't take away from me! I thought he was safe inside me!"

There was no way, Melchior thought, that she could possibly know the baby had been a boy. But he wasn't about to argue with her—if she wanted to think she'd been carrying a son, that was fine. "I don't know," he admitted, hating the words. Blinking rapidly, pushing back his own tears, he held her close and stared vacantly at the wall behind her head. She was asking the obvious questions—the same questions he had been asking himself since learning that she'd been put in danger. Why—why would anyone purposefully do such a thing? It wasn't just cruel, it was downright inhumane. Wendla's body would heal, his mother had assured him, but he wasn't at all sure about her heart. If she'd known about the child—if she'd wanted it—then this was an absolutely crushing blow.

"I felt it even before I woke up," she whispered, the words falling like pinpricks against his throat as she pressed against him. "It hurts inside—I knew something wasn't right. But then I was awake, and you were here, and...I don't know...he wasn't. _Isn't_." She exhaled a hot, feverish breath. Melchior didn't think he'd ever heard anyone cry and talk at the same time, but she was somehow managing it. "He needed me, Melchior. He needed me to keep him safe when no one else in the world wanted him. I tried—I tried so hard."

"I know you did," he said, forcing the words out through the sudden tightness in his throat. He swallowed hard, but the ache only grew worse. "_Liebling_, I know you did. How could you do otherwise?"

"I want him back." She swallowed hard and her hands clutched at fistfuls of his shirt, trembling with the intensity of her conviction. "I don't care about the rest of it—I don't care if they never get punished, if they never feel remorse for what they did to me. But I want him back, Melchior. They took him from me, and it's not fair."

He made a fist behind her back, squeezing his hand hard since he could not squeeze her. This was exactly what he had feared, and there was nothing he could do to ease her pain. He'd give her the world if she asked for it—anything she wanted. But he could not give her this. No one could. It was impossible. Deep down, he suspected she knew that, though knowing the truth wouldn't—couldn't—change the way she felt. His heart hammered uncomfortably in his chest as he held her as close as he dared, drowning in a grief that far surpassed any he had previously felt. The loss of his dear friend Moritz had been a crushing blow, but so many things had happened to him in the short time since Moritz's death, and he hadn't really had the chance to properly grieve. Now Wendla, his Wendla, was clutching him and begging brokenly for the return of something that could never be given back. Like innocence, once lost it was gone forever.

Melchior felt the loss of their unborn child, too—the end of a fragile and wondrous possibility, of something beautiful that could have resulted from this terrible mess. But he suspected that, despite the depth of his own feelings, Wendla's had to be more profound. He felt his own share of guilt over what had happened, but he couldn't imagine the blame she must be heaping on herself in that moment. He could only imagine, knowing how unflinchingly she gave of herself once committed, the bitter chasm of this loss for her mind and heart. She had harbored the tender, fragile result of their love within her body, nurturing it, gleaning comfort from its presence when she didn't know if she would ever see him again. Melchior knew that his own return didn't erase the need she had for this child. How could it? One couldn't simply replace one love with another. The human heart didn't work that way.

But she was asking for something he couldn't give her, and that absolutely broke his heart. He never wanted to deny her anything—didn't think he was _capable_ of denying her anything. Why else had he finally agreed to hit her with that stupid switch, but to give her what she so foolishly thought she wanted? He had not given in because he wanted to, but because he wasn't able to say no to her. The fact that she was now begging for the impossible was eating him alive.

"Wendla, _liebling_, I'm so sorry," he said finally, unable to find any better words. They weren't helpful, but at least they were the truth. "I am so very, very sorry."

"I just want him back," she whispered brokenly, and for the first time in a very long time, Melchior found himself wishing for an adult presence—someone to help him with this, to tell him what to do, what to say. He wanted his mother. They disagreed about many things, but she always seemed to know what to do in a crisis. Melchior violently hated it, but he had to admit that he had no idea what to do right now. Nothing he could possibly do or say would make Wendla feel any better.

"Are you so quick, then, to forgive?" he asked, almost at random. He didn't mean to change the subject, necessarily, but her words about not caring what would happen to her tormentors unsettled him deeply. She was a forgiving creature and he knew that—she could hardly be otherwise and yet remain in his arms, despite the pain he himself had inflicted on her—but this was really beyond the pale if she meant what she said.

"What?" She stilled for a moment, her trembling sobs halting as she held her breath. "I don't—what do you mean?" A hiccup escaped her, then a small noise of distress as the jerky motion caused her pain.

"You said you didn't care whether your captors were ever punished." Melchior pulled away just enough so he could see her face. She was as innocent and open as a newly-bloomed flower—her soft features and big dark eyes held nothing back. Looking at her was like looking into his own soul laid bare. The same pain echoed between them, the same questions that could never be answered.

She blinked slowly, and he saw in that instant how muddled her mind still was by the haze of fever, despite the fact that she was now awake. She wasn't all better—not by a long shot—and she needed to rest. It wasn't the right time for this sort of conversation. They had all the time in the world to do this—later. Not now.

"I don't...I can't..." She lowered her eyes again and he watched, heartbroken, as more tears slipped from below her closed eyelashes. Her cheeks were wet, and he raised a thumb to brush uselessly at the damp tracks. It hurt something deep within him to watch her cry, and he wanted to beg her to stop. At the same time, he couldn't make himself say the words. She was hurting too deeply. He couldn't order her to pretend like she wasn't, for his benefit. It just wasn't possible. "I'd do anything to have my baby back. Anything—even forgive the unforgivable."

Melchior pulled her close again, exhaling a long breath as she gladly tucked her head back against his shoulder. He stroked her hair and down her back, careful to only use the gentlest of touches. "I know you would," he murmured, speaking the words softly into the dark silk of her hair. Her last words gave him hope that she wasn't too blurry to understand that her wish would never come true. No matter how much they might both want it, the child was gone and it was never coming back. They might have other children perhaps, someday, but this loss would stay with them forever. He opened his mouth, but he couldn't force the words from his throat. He couldn't ask the question—couldn't tell her that this desire would remain unfulfilled for the rest of their lives. Later, he told himself. When she was feeling better—when he was sure the fever was gone and her mind was functioning normally again. "You should rest," he said instead. "You're hurt and sick, _liebling_, and you need to sleep."

"Please," she whispered, her breath hot against his throat. "Please don't patronize me."

"Never." He closed his hand around a fistful of the baggy nightshirt she wore. "You are my heart, and I love you with everything I am. I'm not patronizing you, but It would kill me if something happened to you now—please, Wendla. For my sake, if not for yours."

"I wasn't saying no." She swallowed, and he felt her body twitch at the discomfort of the gesture. She needed more water, especially since she was crying. He wanted to fetch her some, but he wasn't about to let go. Not right now—not when she needed him so badly. "I just...I don't..." Her voice was shaky and troubled, and he could hear the fever in it. "Melchior, I don't know. I need—something. But I just—"

"Shh." He rubbed her back carefully. "I hear the frustration in your voice, and I understand. Believe me, Wendla; I understand." This much, at least, was true. He understood what she was trying to say, perhaps better than she herself did at the moment. He understood the abject frustration of feeling a desperate need but being unable to voice it, even to himself. He understood the terror of having no words to explain what went on deep inside him. "We'll figure it out together, and we'll be what each other needs, I promise. But for now, please—please, Wendla—let's try to rest. You're hurt, and sick, and I can't stand to see you like this. It hurts too much."

She remained nestled against him, and Melchior stroked her hair softly, easing his hand down her back and over her arm. He was more grateful than he could ever convey that she didn't seem troubled by his touch. The headmaster might have taken some things away from her that could never be given back, but he had not been able to take that, at least. At the moment, Melchior didn't care if he ever slid his hands under the shadow of her clothing again—she was letting him hold her, and that was enough. He was positive it was enough.

"Do you want to talk about it?" he asked quietly. Maybe now wasn't the best time, but he felt strongly that that needed to be her choice, not his. If she didn't want to be patronized or feel belittled, she needed the freedom to make at least some of her own decisions. There was no way he was leaving her sight or letting anyone other than his mother near her, but this, at least, was a decision she could make and he was pretty sure he could deal with whatever she chose. He didn't honestly want to hear about whatever had happened to her in that awful basement—his imagination was bad enough and he didn't need any confirmation of the horrible things it came up with—but if she wanted to talk, he would listen. Whatever she wanted—so long as it did not involve reuniting with her mother or leaving him.

"Not really." She sniffed, and he felt the delicate sweep of her eyelashes against his throat as she blinked. "That means thinking about it, and thinking gives me nightmares." She shuddered. "Your voice pulled me through the bad dreams, you know. I was still trapped even after you rescued me—trapped in my head. But I heard you talking, and your voice was so soothing." Wendla sounded shy as she admitted this, and Melchior found it utterly bewitching. Though she was wracked with pain and devastation, her sweet nature had not been destroyed and he was desperately grateful for that fact. She was too beautiful, both inside and out. The loss of her innocent nature would have been a crushing blow.

"I've been reading to you while you sleep," he admitted, pulling away just enough to see her face. He stroked the delicate line of her jaw with a gentle thumb. "Would you like me to do it again?"

A tender, tremulous smile broke over her face. "Really?"

"Really." Melchior leaned forward slowly and kissed her forehead. He gauged her reaction, unsure whether that touch was too much, but she did not shy away. "We're halfway through Heinrich Heine's _Neue Gedichte_ right now. It's a beautiful collection of poetry about love and nature."

"I'd like that very much." Her smile was not big, but it sparkled. "My head hurts, and I'm not always sure what I'm saying. Everything is fuzzy."

"You're sick," Melchior repeated. "Just relax and let yourself get better. When you're on the mend we can talk more about what's happened and what's to be done now. For now, please just rest. Nobody knows where we are except my mother, and I trust that she won't betray us."

"I like your mother," Wendla said sleepily.

"She seems to like you, too." Melchior paused as he reached up for Wendla's water cup. "I don't know. I haven't forgiven her for sending me away, especially since it meant I wasn't here to protect you like I should have."

"You didn't know," Wendla murmured, taking the full cup from him and sipping hesitantly. "How could you possibly have known?"

"It doesn't matter. I love you, and I should have been here for you." Melchior clenched his jaw. This was hitting too close to home right now. He needed a chance to process some of his guilt before he ended up unloading it all on Wendla. She didn't need the extra burden of his problems right now; she desperately needed the chance to rest and get better. "How do you feel now? You mentioned your head."

"I hurt everywhere," she admitted softly, swallowing water. "I'm cold, but I can't stop sweating. I'm thirsty—but mostly just tired. I want to sleep, but I'm afraid of the dreams."

"I'll be here to hold you," Melchior promised, refilling the cup and handing it back to her. "If you can remember that in your dreams, you'll be safe. I'll hold you and read as much as you like, and nothing will be able to hurt you. Not really."

Her dark eyes shone as she looked at him, and the mixture of gratitude and love made Melchior's heart skip a beat. She was too beautiful—such a delicate, dark beauty, so ethereal and light that it almost seemed impossible to grasp. But then he put his hand to her cheek or shoulder and she was there, real and firm and warm, and the disjointed image of an elusive little fairy was eclipsed by the reality of what she really was—a beautiful young girl, no more and no less, full of promise and still, even after all this, so startlingly pure.

"_Wir, die jetzt so zärtlich fühlen, Herz an Herz so zärtlich pressen_," he murmured. They were Heine's words; his own seemed woefully inadequate at the moment.

Wendla's smile was achingly sweet. "That's beautiful, Melchior."

"Not as beautiful as you." He stared at her face—the big eyes watching him calmly, the tender mouth moistened with the water she had been drinking. "Wendla?" Under other circumstances he wouldn't have asked, but everything was up in the air now. There were no certainties anymore—not when it came to touch. "May I kiss you? Please?"

Her eyes shifted down, focusing on his mouth, and he held still as she thought about her answer. "Are you sure you want to?" she asked hesitantly.

"I will always want to."

"Then yes—at least, you can try."

He thought he understood what she was saying without words. She wanted things to be like they were before—the physical so deeply felt, so _wanted_ by them both. Melchior didn't know if they'd ever get back there. He was too unsure, and so was she. But she was right—if they didn't try, they'd never know. And maybe it was too soon to ask, too soon to expect her to say yes to something like this, but he wasn't able to hold back when she looked at him like that.

Slowly, achingly slowly, he lowered his mouth toward hers. He watched her lick her lips with nervousness, and then his mouth brushed hesitantly against hers.

She melted in his arms, her body as responsive as it had always been, and Melchior felt a surge of intense relief that this was one thing they hadn't been able to take from her. She might not be able to handle anything more passionate than a gentle kiss right now, and frankly he wasn't up for trying at the moment either, but the soft touch of their lips was still just as perfect as it had ever been. A kiss—such a simple thing, he thought wonderingly as he brushed his mouth across hers again before pressing a little more firmly, feeling her slow response as her arms slid around his shoulders and her mouth locked gently with his. But for them in that moment it was the purest and most beautiful form of expression. He still loved her—still wanted her. She felt the same. Words were unnecessary. He understood how afraid she was that he wouldn't want her anymore after her ordeal, and he hoped he was able to convey just how wrong that fear was. He could never not want her, especially over something that wasn't her fault.

"Be mine," he whispered against her mouth, breaking the kiss but unwilling to pull away. Her breath was warm velvet on his lips.

"I was yours the moment I found you in the woods, as I brought woodruff home for my mother."

Yes, Melchior thought as he released her just enough so they could lie down again, curling into a tangled nest of blankets and limbs. That was the moment for him, too. They'd known each other as children, but it was only during that meeting in the woods when he fully allowed himself to admit what he'd long been feeling. Wendla was his perfect match, and always had been.

"Read to me?"

He could deny her nothing, nor did anyone have to ask him twice to read.

_Sie weint und wirft in den gleitenden Fluß  
><em>_Die schönen Blumenkränze.  
><em>_Die Nachtigall singt von Lieb und Kuß -  
><em>_Es liebt sich so lieblich im Lenze_

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><p><em>AN: So multiple people pointed out last chapter that Otto is not in fact the name of Melchior's father. I seriously should have written a super long disclaimer before posting even the first chapter of this, lol. Yes, I know that Melchior's father's name is technically Hermann. I *tried* writing it that way, I really did, but every time I wrote that name down, a picture of Pee Wee Herman popped into my head. NOT conducive to the mood of this piece, is all I have to say! Otto has been a very common German name for centuries, and one of the ensemble boys is actually named Otto, so it seemed like a reasonable substitution. _


	11. Chapter 11

_A/N: Well, this came out sooner than I expected! Melchior was still trying to argue, but at least now he's doing it with his mother instead of with Wendla (that was the problem I was wrestling with last chapter, and why it took so long to get out). All standard disclaimers apply._

* * *

><p><strong>Kindheit Ende<strong>

When Frau Gabor returned to the hayloft later that night, a fresh basket of food and more lamp oil in hand, Melchior was awake. She eyed him speculatively, wondering just how much to tell him about her errands today. He probably wouldn't mind her chat with Martha Bissel, but she doubted he would react well to any news concerning Frau Bergmann, despite the fact that Fanny had not revealed the girl's whereabouts to her mother. Melchior was too distraught right now, his protective instincts riled like a guard dog with raised hackles, and it would take time for those instincts to calm. Best not to mention what would only cause an argument.

"How is she?" she asked instead, setting the new basket down and pulling her skirts through the trapdoor with a little tug. She knelt next to Wendla's sleeping form in the thick, soft hay and touched her fingers to the girl's cheek.

Melchior tugged at his hair. "I don't know," he said stonily.

Fanny Gabor instantly picked up on the change in her son's voice. Normally he was the epitome of sweetness when talking about Wendla, no matter how upset he might otherwise be. But, though the gentleness of affection lingered in his voice, it was partially masked by an adolescent veneer made to brush her off. Well, she'd had a teenager in the house for several years now, and she wasn't about to be put off by childish moods. "What's wrong?" she asked, sounding just as no-nonsense as she felt.

"Nothing."

"That's not true, and you know it." Fanny glanced at her son out of the corner of her eye as she pretended to check Wendla's pulse. In truth, though she still had a fever and was probably in a great deal of pain, her condition was stable enough that such measures weren't necessary. Melchior didn't know that, though, and he said nothing to stop his mother from touching his love as she waited for his answer.

He looked...torn, she thought. Part of him still wanted very much to turn to her as he had done so often when he was younger. Part of him still believed she had the answers to life's questions, despite her past mistakes and the terrible consequences they led to. But disillusionment ran deep, and Melchior's had been both sudden and painful. It would take time for the scars to build up—metaphorically speaking—and heal over the raw wounds of adolescence. That was all growing up was, really, Fanny thought. The breaking of trust—the wounding of childhood innocence—and then the layering of numbing scar tissue over the resulting fissures. What she did not know was who Melchior would ultimately be once the scarring process was complete.

"She knows," he said finally, dropping his voice though their speech had not yet disturbed Wendla's exhausted sleep. "She knows the baby is gone. She cried for it—for hours it seemed. Begged for it back. I didn't know what to do—what to say."

"Ah." Fanny touched the girl's tangled hair. They would have to comb it out soon if they didn't want the snarls to become permanent. "I wondered when that would happen. Poor dear—but it can't be helped. As I told you before, this is a commonplace occurrence. One she'll have to get used to if she plans on ever having children in the future. She can expect at least several more miscarriages, and that's not counting the babies born alive who don't make it." She cast an eye to her son; his face was closed to her, his expression unreadable. She wasn't used to that, and she didn't like it. "You yourself had two brothers who died as infants, and a sister lost to typhus at age five."

"I know," Melchior said tightly. "I've seen the graves."

"Yes, well, I'm reminding you now. You're young, and maybe you and she feel like this is the end of the world. You lost a friend in Moritz, and you lost the child whose conception started this mess. But the world isn't over, son. You're still alive, and so is she. I don't know what else you expect from God; he's given you that much already."

"I don't believe in God," Melchior said tightly, "and therefore expect nothing from him. I can't believe in a heavenly father when I think of all that's happened that could have been avoided. And I certainly can't believe in a loving God when Wendla is crying and blaming herself for a loss she had no control over!"

Wendla shifted, turning her head into the crinkly hay and making a soft, protesting noise as he raised his voice. Instantly Melchior stilled, his attention riveted to her sleeping form.

"The miscarriage is no one's fault, as I said before. It's just one of those things. Guilt is uncomfortable, but it eases with time. I can't force you to believe that any more than I can force you to believe in God—any more than Herr Sonnenstich could force Wendla to renounce you."

Silence.

Fanny stroked Wendla's head softly as she watched her son. He eyed her warily, though the outrage she feared never appeared.

"Who told you?" he asked finally, sounding more tired than anything else. Resigned, perhaps, which was something she had never heard from him before.

"Martha. I spoke with her today. She is to have the money Moritz asked me for—the escape I denied him."

"You can't redeem past sins by paying off someone else!"

"And you can't speak of sin, son, if you don't believe in God." Fanny stilled her hand in Wendla's hair.

"Semantics," he snapped. "Mistakes—bad choices—I don't care what word you use. There _must_ be an underlying code of ethics to the world. Something we can all agree on, regardless of religion. Something that has to do with what is right, not what is moral." His soft young face turned dark. "Since you know already, no doubt everyone thinks our dear headmaster is a moral man. But nothing he did in the past week was right, and neither you nor Father Kahlbauch will ever convince me otherwise."

"I wouldn't try to." Fanny felt Wendla shift under her hand—the girl was waking. They had to close this conversation quickly. She had no wish to be in the middle of an argument when Wendla fully woke. Poor child—she needed peace and quiet to recover, not to be constantly reminded of the people who had done this to her. Her mind was probably doing that enough already. "Melchior, I admit that I made mistakes handling Moritz's plea for help. I discounted his threat of suicide, which I never should have done. Knowing what I know now, I would have acted differently. I don't know that I would have given him the money he requested, but I wouldn't have brushed him aside. But there's nothing I can do about that—what's done is done. What I _can_ do is reward good deeds and faithfulness, and try to ease the lives of those who are hurting, both of which I did by offering the money to Wendla's friend. It doesn't negate Moritz's death. But for that poor girl, it might just offer a thread of hope. I think that's more than ample reason."

"And how do you plan to explain the disappearance of a sum of money that large to my father?"

Fanny smiled. "I've always had ways to deal with your father, son. Men may think they rule the world, but women have learned how to get by. We have to."

"I won't ever be like that," Melchior vowed suddenly, and Fanny felt as the anger in him shifted, the flame dimming ever so slightly as it moved backward in his mind. This conversation wasn't over, but they could put it on hold for now. He saw Wendla shift again and his hand moved to capture hers. The raw earnestness in his voice as he spoke was compelling, and she couldn't help but believe him. Otto was not a bad man—he was a far better man, in fact, than many others in town. But Fanny had no doubt that her son was of a different order entirely. "I couldn't ever treat Wendla the way other men treat their wives. I see it and I hate it. It isn't right."

Right and wrong did not have any place in a discussion like that, Fanny felt, but she held her peace. If he wanted to see this issue in black and white, she wasn't going to argue with him.

Wendla's sweet dark eyes flickered open, and she blinked blearily first at Fanny and then at Melchior. "I fell asleep again?" She looked around at the darkened hayloft, the only light coming from the little lamp that burned cheerily near the trapdoor. Her eyes lingered in the dark corner where the mother cat was busy washing a kitten before they flicked back to Frau Gabor. "I'm sorry."

"Don't apologize, child. Sleeping is exactly what you should be doing." Fanny touched her cheek reassuringly. She was still hot, and the sunken, haggard look remained though she was still undeniably a lovely girl. "For now, though, let's try a little solid food and see how you do. What do you think?"

Wendla nodded timidly, and Fanny turned to fetch the basket as Melchior slipped his arms around her, carefully helping her into a sitting position. She leaned back against his chest and squeezed her eyes shut for a long moment in the unmistakeable grimace of someone fighting off a wave of dizziness.

"The disorientation will pass with your fever," Fanny said, uncovering bowls of food for both children. There was fresh beef—not an everyday occurrence, but Wendla needed to replenish her iron levels and red meat was the fastest and easiest way to do it—boiled potatoes, and dark greens. Otto certainly had not complained about the treat, and neither was Melchior.

"Eat slowly and carefully," Fanny cautioned. "Listen to your body. It will tell you what it needs. If you can only eat a little bit, that's better than vomiting."

"I don't want to seem ungrateful," Wendla whispered, holding her bowl in shaking hands.

Fanny deftly took the piece of crockery and placed it in her lap, then took the girl's chin and raised it until she could see her eyes. Wendla had never been a shrinking violet, but the imprint of Frau Bergmann's overbearing mothering was clear in her daughter's personality. She wanted rules and limits—wanted to know what was expected of her. Love had made her improvident in her dealings with Melchior, but in general she seemed always to want to please. If Melchior was telling the truth about treating her differently than other men treated their wives, Wendla would perhaps soon learn to speak her own mind in more situations. But right now Fanny was an adult and she was a child, and she was understandably nervous.

"Child, I assure you," she said, "that ought to be the least of your worries right now. You're ill and injured. While you may not be my child, strictly speaking, you're still a child, and I am a mother. Let me care for you, dearest, and try not to fret."

Wendla flushed, but she complied as Frau Gabor held the bowl and offered back the fork. "Thank you," she whispered. Her hand still shook, but Fanny was willing to believe it was from weakness rather than nerves. She had no doubt that Frau Bergmann would not be so accepting of weakness—not if it put her out in any way. Wendla's mother liked things to be just so, and any deviations were vastly upsetting to her. It was one reason why she and Fanny had never seemed to get along.

"I can do that," Melchior protested with his mouth full."

"You eat," Fanny said, waving him away. "And then you're going to go bathe. Your father is playing chess with Father Kahlbauch tonight, so there's no reason to worry."

"I'm not leaving," he said, once again adamant.

"Yes, you are. You smell like you've been working in the fields all day, and it's less than pleasant, frankly. I'll stay here—she won't be alone."

"No."

"Yes." Frau Gabor smiled at Wendla, who gave her a hesitant, wavery smile back. "We'll be just fine for the short time it takes you to get clean."

"Wendla doesn't want me to go." Melchior set his bowl down, half-eaten, and reached for her hand.

Fanny glanced at the girl. The expression on her face was troubled, and she thought she knew why. It was an uncomfortable situation, putting her in the middle. While Fanny was certain it was the truth and Wendla did not, in fact, want Melchior to leave her, she also knew they'd have to learn to be apart at some point. It was neither healthy nor realistic to expect them both to remain in the same room for the rest of their lives. She could also see that Wendla did not want to argue with her as an adult and an authority figure, no matter what else she might otherwise prefer.

"Don't put the girl in the middle of this," she scolded lightly. "Humor me and pretend I still, as your mother, have some sort of say in what you do."

"I don't—"

"It's okay." Wendla's soft voice broke through Melchior's refusal, stilling him as surely as a shout would have. She squeezed his hand, and the look that passed between them was both intense and private. Fanny couldn't begin to decipher it, nor did she want to. Some things were meant to remain between lovers. "I'll be okay. Please, though—hurry?"

Frau Gabor saw the moment of capitulation. She could also see that Melchior was not happy about this, though he was powerless to deny Wendla. "Of course," he said. "As fast as I can."

He kissed her temple softly and was down the ladder a moment later. Fanny held in a chuckle as she heard his running steps heading toward the house. He was serious about hurrying—had even abandoned his half-eaten food in his haste.

"Now, then," she said, laying Wendla's bowl in the girl's lap. "We can have some women-talk. Not too much—I know you're still not feeling well."

"I feel better than I did this afternoon," Wendla said softly. She had eaten the greens in her bowl, and Fanny pressed a cup of water into her hand.

"Try to eat as much meat as you can," she urged. "It may not seem appetizing, but it will help your body heal."

Wendla obediently took a bite as Fanny dug in the basket again, producing a hairbrush. She watched in amusement as Wendla offered a piece of meat from Melchior's abandoned bowl to the mother cat, who had come to investigate the interesting smells. The cat took it from her outstretched fingers and then retreated back to her corner, the kittens crowding around to sniff though they were young yet to be eating solid food.

"I don't remember there being cats up here." Wendla's voice was quiet, and Fanny didn't know if it was illness or shyness keeping her words so soft and hesitant.

"There weren't until yesterday. Otto brought them home as mousers." Fanny settled herself behind Wendla and took a handful of her dark hair. "I'll try not to pull," she said. "Tell me if it hurts."

"Everything hurts," Wendla said with a sigh.

"I'm surprised you can sit, truthfully." Fanny began brushing lightly at the bottom of the soft strands of hair, working her way slowly upward. "We cleaned you off after I discovered Melchior had hidden you up here. I saw your backside, child—it's not a pretty sight at the moment."

Wendla flushed deeply; Fanny saw the color bleed even onto the back of her neck.

"Shh—don't feel bad. None of it was your fault." She paused and moved, abandoning Wendla's hair in favor of her eyes. "Child—you know that, right? I may not know everything that happened to you, but I know enough. Nothing that they did was in any way your fault. You deserved none of it. I need you to tell me that you understand."

"My head does," Wendla whispered, and her eyes filled. They were bright as stars, the brown irises almost golden with reflected lamplight. "My heart isn't so sure. They said things—such awful things..."

"I'm sure they did." Fanny closed her mouth in a grim line. Wendla's use of the plural told her the answer she hadn't had before. This horrible crime hadn't been committed by Herr Sonnenstich alone. Someone else—most likely the under-teachers living with him—had helped. "Men like that know exactly what to say to justify what they want to do. I told your friend Martha the same thing just this afternoon, but it's a lesson that bears repeating. Nothing—_nothing_-you could ever do would make what they did okay."

"Mama said I had to learn a lesson." Wendla's whisper was just as tearful as her eyes.

"Your mother hasn't a clue what she's talking about, and I'm going to do everything in my power to keep you away from her from now on." Frau Gabor felt the resolve firming in her gut as she said the words. Before it had been a nebulously vague sort of feeling—the feeling that _someone_ ought to do something for Wendla. Now it was crystal-clear that nobody else was going to step in. She and Melchior were on their own.

"But you wanted to tell her where I was..." Wendla protested uncertainly.

"No," Fanny corrected, "I wanted to make sure you agreed with Melchior about keeping away from her. I know he has your best interests at heart, but you have a say in this, too. It's your life." It was almost completely true—close enough that Fanny didn't feel bad about the refutation. Yes, at the time, she had still felt hopeful about a reunion between mother and daughter. Now she was anything but.

"Oh." Wendla took another careful bite, though Fanny could see that she was going through the motions because she'd been told to, not because she wanted to. Her body was in turmoil right now, and Fanny wasn't at all surprised that an upset stomach seemed to be a current symptom. But the red meat really would help her feel better if she could keep it down. "It does hurt," she added softly.

For a moment Frau Gabor wasn't sure what Wendla was talking about, but then she clicked back several sentences. "Do you think the hay helps?" she asked. Physical wounds were apparently a safer topic than Frau Bergmann's betrayal.

Wendla nodded slowly, offering a finger to the little orange kitten that had, once again, made its laborious way across the hayloft. It licked her fingertip with its tiny sandpaper tongue and she smiled softly—the first real smile Frau Gabor had seen on her face since discovering the children hiding in the hay. "I don't think I could manage on the bare boards," she admitted.

Frau Gabor returned to her spot behind Wendla and resumed brushing out the beautiful curls. "If it hurts, you can lie down. Don't do something that causes pain, honey. One of the welts has split and it won't heal if you keep putting pressure on it."

"I think I'll be all right until Melchior gets back."

"Suit yourself. I'm not going to tell you what to do when there's no need. You're a smart girl. You can figure things out on your own." She paused. "Child—I know these things come with time and they can't be dictated. But I'd like you to be able to ask me questions—tell me things—whatever you might need. I know you have Melchior and I'm sure he's a great comfort. But he's a man—or will be soon—and if you need a woman to talk to, I'm here."

"Thank you." Wendla's voice faltered, and Fanny could feel the hesitancy. No, the girl did not fully trust her yet, but that wasn't surprising. They hardly knew each other. But if she was Melchior's choice for the future, Fanny was going to embrace it. Fighting the inevitable had only resulted in untenable amounts of heartache for all involved and she was through. It was also undeniably true that Wendla badly needed a mother and her own was wholly unsuitable. It would take time to win her trust, but Fanny was dedicated to her task.

"In time," she said. "Everything comes with time, child. Trust me—you'll see." The sound of a slamming door broke through the hesitant silence, and Fanny smiled. "Look—there's Melchior coming back to you, just as he said he would."

Wendla's voice was still soft, but it was full of a joy Fanny didn't know that she'd ever herself touched. "Yes. I didn't doubt him for a moment."

* * *

><p><em>AN: This chapter had kind of a lot of philosophical discussion in it, which I didn't expect, although with Melchior's character growth I probably should have. Bruised Smile made the excellent comment last chapter that the entire play of Spring Awakening is basically about the loss of innocence that comes with growing up. There is one book on that topic that I can't recommend enough. It's called The Dubious Hills by Pamela Dean. The book is an allegory, which means it can be read on several levels. On one level, it's a story about a girl in a dystopian society whose teacher wants to turn everyone into werewolves. But on another level, it's about the loss of innocence that comes, not just from growing up, but also to every society at some point. Gorgeous language; she's one of my all-time favorite authors. _

_Here's a quote from the book that gives me shivers every time I read it:_

"Yet you bethought you of Halver," said Oonan.

"Reason would do as much as that," said Frances. "Reason is what we have now."

"So you told Halver," said Oonan. "What happened then?"

Bec answered him. "He got enthralled. You know - you understand - you remember how he does. He walked up and down his room and talked and shouted. This was true learning, he said, this was education, what he had done until now with every child under his care was mere - mere - " Bec looked at Frances.

"Rote and eyewash," said Frances precisely.

"No, not that, I could remember that myself. The Draconian word."

"Ah," said Frances. "Indoctrination."

"What?" said Oonan.

"When the Dragons use it, it still means just education," said Bec. "But in Wormsreign it means otherwise, and that's what Halver meant."

"Where did he come by a word like that?" said Oonan.

"I told it him," said Frances. "Very long ago; the year Arry was born. He would ask me for words as a child asks for honey. Thinking them even less harmful, I gave him them."


	12. Chapter 12

_A/N: All standard disclaimers apply._

* * *

><p><strong>Kindheit Ende<strong>

"What did you do to my daughter?"

Herr Sonnenstich did not look up from the papers he was grading. "Are you questioning my methods, Frau Bergmann?"

She crossed her arms over her chest, shifting uncomfortably in the boys' schoolroom. Though lessons were over for the day and only Herr Sonnenstich remained at his desk, she did not feel entirely comfortable discussing these matters in this place. He had originally approached her about Wendla's transgressions, not the other way around, and she had been relieved, quite honestly, that such an upstanding man had taken an interest in her family's troubles. She was beyond furious at Wendla, not only for making such a mistake and ruining the family's good name, but for having the gall to accuse _her_ of fault. Of _course_ she hadn't told her daughter the truth about where babies came from when the girl asked. Wendla was a child. This was not an appropriate topic for discussion even among adults; there was no way she was going to do so with her child.

And yes, perhaps it was true that Wendla wouldn't have known the ultimate consequence of allowing herself to be defiled by the Gabor boy, but that didn't mean it was an acceptable choice to make. Wendla knew enough. She went to church. She knew that touching someone else with anything more than a polite handshake was a sin. She knew that boys and girls were not supposed to be alone together. She might not have known everything, but she knew enough and she ignored it all anyway.

So when Herr Sonnenstich offered to take her in hand, teaching her the error of her ways, Frau Bergmann had gladly accepted. He was a good man; an important member of the community. The parents of the town entrusted their sons to him, and he did a good job molding boys into men despite the fact that most of the townspeople did not like him as a person. They didn't need to like him. They respected his work, and that was enough.

Before his offer, Frau Bergmann hadn't really known what to do. Something had to be done, but she was a widow, alone, and she felt adrift, unsure what was best for all involved. It helped that the Gabors sent their boy away to reform school—at least he wasn't around to continue to goad Wendla into inappropriate behavior. But the damage had already been done. No one in town knew yet that her daughter was carrying an illegitimate child at the tender age of fifteen, but they would soon if she let the pregnancy progress. Frau Bissel, the mother of Wendla's friend Martha, had reminded Frau Bergmann that the doctor two towns over helped to...take care of these difficult situations, but Frau Bergmann had not entirely made up her mind as to whether that was such a good idea. Continuing with the pregnancy meant ruin for the Bergmann name, but taking Wendla to the doctor was risky, too. A number of women had gone to him and never returned home.

But really, what else was she supposed to do? She could send Wendla away to an asylum for unwed mothers and bring her back after the baby was born—leaving the child in an orphanage, of course—but people would know. Even if no one said anything to her face, they would know. All they had to do was count the number of months Wendla spent away "visiting family" and it would be as if Frau Bergmann announced the news in the paper. Wendla would carry that stigma forever—likely she would never marry, and certainly no one upstanding enough to assuage Frau Bergmann's fastidious tastes.

And Frau Gabor's insistence that Melchior be permitted to marry Wendla was just laughable. There was no way Frau Bergmann would reward their bad decisions by allowing them to be together. Besides, she loathed Fanny Gabor—always had—and she was _not_ going to have the woman as an in-law. Bad enough that her husband had been such close friends with Otto Gabor. He was dead now, and she was content to have as little contact with the Gabors as possible. Allowing their children to marry was inconceivable.

"But it's the most reasonable way to fix this, mama," Wendla's sister had protested. "Otherwise, she might never marry and you'll be saddled with her forever."

Frau Bergmann understood that, and she was willing to take the risk. Far better to be burdened with a spinster daughter than an in-law like Fanny Gabor. "_You_ would never have done this to me," she said to her older daughter.

"No," Wendla's sister agreed, "but, then, you eventually saw fit to give consent to the man I wanted to marry. Perhaps Wendla felt, knowing how you feel about the Gabors, that she had little alternative?"

"Are you blaming me, too?" Frau Bergmann demanded.

"No, mama. You know I would never do such a thing. But Wendla has always been headstrong. You remember how papa used to spoil her."

"He never would listen to me when I said that hard limits were more important than coddling," Frau Bergmann said with a sigh. "You watch your own husband, my girl, and be sure you don't have the same problem with your daughters."

But none of her prayers or her conversations with her remaining daughter were helping at all. Frau Bergmann knew the moment Fanny Gabor left her house, leaving behind that offensively stained apron, that she had to approach Herr Sonnenstich and learn whether any of it was true. He was such an upstanding citizen that she didn't want to believe it—any of it. Fanny Gabor surely was lying, though Frau Bergmann couldn't imagine why. What did she have to gain by claiming that Wendla had somehow run away from the headmaster and was injured?

"I am by no means questioning the fitness of your methods," Frau Bergmann said now, drawing herself up to her full height. She was not going to be cowed, even by such a formidable man as the headmaster. "I am merely stating that I do not, in fact, know what they are. What, exactly, have you done to my daughter?"

"Put the fear of God in her, with any luck," Herr Sonnenstich said dryly. He raised his head and stared at Frau Bergmann for a long moment. She could read nothing in his middle-aged, sharp face. After several seconds ticked by, he drew a breath and removed his glasses, setting them carefully on the desk. "You didn't care to know before," he said, leaning back in his chair. "Why are you asking now?"

"Because Frau Gabor came to my house yesterday with some rather unsettling news," Frau Bergmann admitted. "She says Wendla is no longer in your care—that she ran away somehow. I don't want to believe it, but I must say, if the rumor is true it doesn't speak well for your methods."

"Frau Gabor said that?" Herr Sonnenstich stood up slowly. "Interesting."

"Why?"

He paused a moment before he spoke again, tapping the corner of his desk idly with a long finger. "It's true that your daughter is no longer in my care," he admitted. "I hadn't mentioned it only because I consider it a minor setback. The other teachers are looking for her as we speak. She can't have gone far, and I fully expect her safe return in a matter of days. As to running away, I can assure you that it wasn't possible. She was secured in the house in such a way that she could not have left on her own."

"Someone took her," Frau Bergmann breathed.

"That is the reasonable assumption, yes." Herr Sonnenstich leaned back against the desk. "The question remains—who?"

"Frau Gabor said Wendla wasn't with her."

"Melchior is the obvious best suspect, naturally. The boy has no respect for authority."

"But he's at the reformatory. Frau Gabor warned me that she planned to bring him home after this term, but - "

"That boy is sneaky and conniving enough that I think a letter to the reformatory might just be in order, to make doubly sure. We were making such progress with little Wendla. If she spends too much time free before the process is complete, we'll have to start all over again—it will take longer, and require more stringent methods." He crossed his arms, staring out the little window of the schoolroom. "Frau Bergmann, are you quite sure you told no one of your daughter's whereabouts—that you had given her into my care?"

"I am no idle gossiper," Frau Bergmann snapped. "What would it behoove me, anyway, to admit that I could not control my child and had to seek help from an outside party?"

"I admit that I am at a loss as to who would have known where she was, let alone risked exposure by kidnapping her." The headmaster took a deep breath and let it out again slowly, deep in thought. "The Gabor boy would be the obvious culprit, if we could prove he knew where she was."

"Wendla couldn't have told him anything. She didn't know herself until I brought her to you, and Frau Gabor assured me that the reformatory would not pass along any letters from my daughter, even if she _did_ somehow know beforehand."

"She didn't," Herr Sonnenstich said, waving away the suggestion. "I can assure you that the child knew nothing about the plan before she arrived at my house. The eyes do not lie, though the mouth does readily. She was as ignorant as I requested she be."

"Could someone have seen?"

"Seen what?" he scoffed. "A mother accompanying her child through town? Such an ordinary sight would go unnoticed. I suppose it's always possible one of my under-teachers mentioned something...indiscreet. They do have a tendency to visit the tavern now and again, though I try to discourage it."

"That must have been what happened," Frau Bergmann said, relief filling her. It wasn't a happy answer by any means, but it could be worse. If someone in town had her, that meant she hadn't gone far. Furthermore, it meant Melchior Gabor was almost certainly still out of the picture...for now. She wasn't terribly concerned about getting Wendla back; if Herr Sonnenstich said the other teachers were looking for her, she had faith they would find her. Once that happened, she'd just take a quick look to make sure Frau Gabor's story of injury was patently false, and then send her back to the headmaster's house...assuming, of course, that he could assure her nothing like this would happen again.

But why would someone take her from Herr Sonnenstich in the first place? That was what Frau Bergmann just couldn't understand. Did someone misunderstand something that had been said in the tavern? Not that she'd ever been in such an establishment herself, but she'd heard Father Kahlbauch preach against them plenty of times. They were vile, dirty places—certainly she had never allowed her husband to visit one. If a man from this town or the next—or, God forbid, even a stranger passing through—had heard one of the under-teachers talking while inebriated, certainly he might get the wrong idea. And if so, he might well decide, out of some mistaken sense of altruism, to do something about it.

But why wouldn't he bring the child back to her mother, if that was the case? If someone thought Herr Sonnenstich had the girl illegally, why wouldn't he return her home? Surely that was what Wendla would ask for. She would want to come home to her mama. This nonsense Frau Gabor spoke, of the girl not wanting to see her—it was the basest sort of lie; of that Frau Bergmann was certain.

"Frau Gabor was of the opinion that Wendla was injured," Frau Bergmann said. She wanted to approach the topic very carefully, lest she offend the headmaster. It wasn't his fault he was being accused of patently ridiculous crimes, and she did not want him to assume she believed the Gabor woman's stories. But the bloodstained apron truly had unsettled her, and she needed to hear from his own mouth that he had not harmed her child. Not _that_ badly, anyway. She had no doubt that he was taking her firmly in hand, but that was only to be expected. Moreover, it was what the girl needed. If gentle remonstrances were of any use at all, they would have stopped her from getting into this trouble in the first place.

"I suspect she's probably rather uncomfortable," Herr Sonnenstich said frankly. "But you were very clear that permanent damage not be done, and I strive to obey the edict of the parent when it is in the best interest of the child. I am the authority on discipline, but you are the authority on your daughter. You know what's best for her—no doubt that's why you gave her over to my care in the first place."

"Just what I expected," Frau Bergmann said with a nod. Her fears had been allayed—the headmaster had not hurt her girl as Frau Gabor insisted. "The Gabors have been troublesome to me for quite some time now. I expect these accusations are merely more of the same."

"Indeed," Herr Sonnenstich said. "I am sorry to hear of these accusations against me, and I cannot imagine where Frau Gabor got such an idea. There is no love lost between her son and I—perhaps he has been sending his mother letters full of falsehoods. Being an overly-emotional woman, she might fall for such lies."

"Undoubtedly so, _mein__Herr_," Frau Bergmann replied. It seemed perfectly clear now what was going on. Fanny Gabor's son was the root of all their problems. Maybe he hadn't been the one to kidnap Wendla, but as far as she was concerned it was all his fault nonetheless.

"I think I shall send a letter to the reformatory, as I previously suggested, just in case." Herr Sonnenstich tapped his chin. "And perhaps endeavor to speak with one of the Gabors in the meantime."

"Try Herr Gabor," Frau Bergmann advised. "His wife is full of falsehoods and idle threats."

"I am beginning to see that, yes." He inclined his head to Frau Bergmann in clear but polite dismissal. "Good day to you—and thank you. You've given me much to think about."

* * *

><p>"Melchior?"<p>

The morning air was cool and soft, and he smiled as he ran a hand down Wendla's warm back. She was still sick, still injured, but each hour that passed made him more and more sure that they would get through this. She was going to recover—_they_ were going to recover—and things would be back to normal again. Not as if her ordeal had never happened—that was clearly asking too much. But he believed strongly that she would be all right. He was here to take care of her; whatever she needed, for as long as she needed. Nothing was going to harm her ever again.

"I didn't know you were awake," he said softly, holding her body a little tighter. Sometime during the night he'd rolled onto his back and Wendla had curled on her side in the crook of his arm, her head pillowed on his shoulder and his arm snaked firmly around her waist.

"Sometimes I'm not sure I am, either." She nestled further into his embrace, as if somehow his touch could erase everything bad that had happened. "I have strange dreams."

"Nightmares?"

She shrugged idly. "I never remember enough to know for sure. I dream that I'm awake, and sometimes when I open my eyes it's like I'm still dreaming."

"It's the fever," Melchior said, brushing her hair away from her cheek. She was still hot, and his mother said that might continue for several more days or a week as her body struggled to heal. "Mama warned you about odd dreams. Do you remember?"

"Not really." Wendla rubbed her eyes. "I'm tired of being so tired, Melchi."

He smiled, but the smile was laced with sadness. He'd take her pain and lethargy away if he could—gladly would he take them on himself if only it were possible. He hated that all he could do was comfort her when she was upset, and fetch her food and water when she needed them. "My mother said you can come to the house and take a real bath today if you like. My father's at work, and there's no one else around."

Wendla hesitated. The thought of hot water was extremely tempting, but the thought of leaving her little nest in the hay wasn't pleasant. What if someone happened to be passing by and saw her out in the yard? Or Melchior's father came home early for some reason? She felt safe up here, hidden away with the cats and Melchior. It was a special place to her now—not only the haven to which Melchior brought her when she was desperate and hurt, but also the place where he had first touched her, first loved her. She was beyond grateful for his help, but she _needed_ his love. Memories of him had kept hope alive during the darkest parts of those few days spent in Sonnenstich's care. Her hope for the child she had so fleetingly borne was now gone, but she still had Melchior. He was with her and he wasn't going away. The dreams haunted her, but through it all she heard and remembered his whispered promises. He was hers for good—for always. And that reassurance meant more to her than absolutely anything else in the world. More than his mother's care. More than the quiet safety of their hayloft. More than anything.

"Wendla?"

The worry in his voice made her heart hurt, and she stroked his cheek carefully with her hand, resting her fingers against the firm line of his jaw. He was such a beautiful boy—strong and earnest, fierce and intelligent, and he was all hers.

"What are you thinking, _liebling_?" he asked, shifting their bodies carefully so he could look at her. Wendla didn't know what he might see—were there bruises on her face, or other reminders of the ordeal he'd saved her from? All she could see in his eyes was love. Here in this hayloft, during their passionate encounter, he'd told her he didn't know if love even existed. Though he'd said the word to her since, she didn't need his verbal professions to know that he'd changed his mind. She saw it every time he looked at her. His intent blue gaze never failed to send butterflies pinging around in her belly, and there couldn't possibly be any other word for how he made her feel.

"Nobody else ever asks what I'm thinking," she whispered softly, and she worked up the courage to trace her fingertips across the curve of his mouth. His lips were so soft, and his hands were impossibly gentle as he touched her. Just the simplest contact filled her with warmth. Part of her wanted to curl up tightly in a corner after those horrific days spent in darkness and pain—curl up and never let anyone touch her again. Not a handshake, not an arm to help her into a carriage—nothing. But this was _Melchior_. She trusted him, and his voice and hands had pulled her from her nightmare and into this safe haven. She could never fear him; never not want him. There was nothing kind or soft about Sonnenstich and the other teachers, but Melchior was both. Oh, she'd pushed him into striking her, but she would never forget the horrified look in his eyes when he realized what he'd done. She had cried that day more for what she'd done to him than the other way around. Ordinarily, under his own authority, he was fervently passionate but not hurtful. Never hurtful.

"In a more progressive town, you'd be rewarded for your quick mind," he said, mirroring her hands and touching her face gently. "We'll get there, _liebling_. When you're better, we're going to find a place where both of us can be happy."

"Where is that?" she asked, a quiver of trepidation feathering through her body. Yes, she supposed it was inevitable that they would have to leave. Now that Melchior mentioned it, she knew that. They could not continue to live forever in the hayloft like Frau Gabor's kittens. But if she was honest with herself, she didn't _want_ to leave. Sonnenstich had taken absolutely everything from her, and she was desperately grateful for each gift bestowed upon her now, however small. She would never get back the child she had lost, and her mother was forever lost to her as well. She also couldn't help but feel that Sonnenstich and the other teachers had taken something from her by forcing her to do those terrible things she did not want to do. Her dignity, yes—her humanity, almost. But it felt like there was something else, something she could not yet put words to. Whether she would ever get it back, Wendla didn't know.

But Melchior had come back. He had come for her, and brought her to this safe haven. She had the sweet smell of hay and warm, fresh summer air now instead of the dank, black pit of Sonnenstich's basement. She had big, heavy nightclothes, and sheets and a quilt. Instead of the cold, clammy basement, she was surrounded by warmth. The horrible feeling of being naked and not by choice was gone—she was literally cocooned in fabric now, and she wasn't taking a bit of it for granted. Her own mother might be lost to her, but Melchior's had been nothing short of miraculous. She brought books and warm food, and she stroked Wendla's hair soothingly and called her _child_. She did not demand to know whether Wendla thought of herself as a child or an adult. She didn't threaten, and her hands did not cause pain when they touched.

Taken all together, Wendla was not at all sure she ever wanted to leave this place.

But staying wasn't realistic, and she supposed she knew that. As long as Melchior was with her, she was reasonably sure they'd be all right. She was willing to do anything—brave any journey—as long as he went with her.

"Shh," he said now, and he traced his fingertip under her eye, just the shadow of a touch. "I see worry in your eyes. Please don't fret. We won't go anywhere until you're better, and that won't be for a while. And when we do leave, it will be our choice. Together. We'll decide where to go, just you and me, and no one will be able to touch us ever again."

A trembling smile stole across her lips; she couldn't help it. "_Glücklich __und __zufrieden __bis __an __unsere __Lebensende_?"

"Even longer," he promised, and his fingertips tickled the corner of her mouth. She shivered lightly and touched his arm, hoping he might follow the intimate touch with a kiss.

"Wendla," he said, and a small undercurrent of tension flowed into his voice. "Wendla, may I - "

"Of course," she said, raising dark eyes to lock with his. "You don't have to ask."

"But if I want to?"

"You never have before."

His mouth dipped to brush against hers, a delicate touch that swept everything else from her mind. Each time he kissed her, it was like an affirmation. A promise that this was real—as he'd said to her before, that it was _good_. He was gentle still, though his hesitation had lessened since their last kiss. His mouth lingered on hers, kissing her with an aching sweetness that felt _so_ good. After everything that had happened, she desperately wanted to sink into the sensation of a good touch for once. His arm was around her waist, his other hand playing with her ear, then running down her cheek. Not once did he try to grab her, to force her this way or that. He did nothing but kiss her, his mouth releasing hers only to trace tiny, warm, tickling kisses across her jaw and over her ear before he pulled her slightly closer, burying his head in her hair.

"Everything is different now," he said, and his voice cracked on the last syllable.

"Yes," she agreed, though she desperately did not want to. "It is." As much as she wanted to believe everything could go back to the way it was before, she knew it couldn't. Even fuzzy with fever, she understood that much. Things had changed. Neither she nor Melchior knew exactly how, but they both could feel that it had.

"I have to ask." He nuzzled deeper into her hair, breathing deeply. "I almost lost you, and I'm not taking anything for granted anymore."

"The answer will always be yes." _That_ had not changed—nor would it. Wendla was sure enough about that.

"You don't know that," he argued. "You don't know what you might or might not want once your body heals. I will always want to touch you, dear heart, but I'll never be able to just reach out and take you. Not anymore—not as I did then."

Wendla closed her eyes, pushing further into his arms, wanting to feel him wrapped tightly around her. Sonnenstich had taken that from both of them, and she hated it. Melchior's passion that afternoon—the beautiful afternoon they spent exploring each other's bodies, learning just what this secret was between them—was fervent and beautiful. She understood his wariness now, but she hoped he was wrong and his confidence would one day return. They didn't deserve to have that taken from them, too.

"Melchi?" she said, tucking her face into the little niche between his shoulder and his throat. She liked it there—she could feel his pulse against her forehead, and she could smell the soft boyish scent of him. "Can I tell you something?"

"Always." He stroked her hair, running his fingers through the curls his mother had helped to brush smooth.

"When I was...down there..." she said, swallowing hard, "in that basement, I had a lot of time to think. And I came to a conclusion."

"What was that, _liebling_?"

"That I have to thank you for...doing that with me," she said. Even now she had no words for what she and Melchior had experienced together in the hay. The brutal attacks by Sonnenstich and his under-teachers they had called fucking, but she did not for one minute believe that was what she had done with Melchior. "If the headmaster and his teachers had got me before, I'm not sure I'd be able to touch anyone ever again. Not like that. But you showed me that it can be beautiful. The way you touch me and the way they did—it's not the same thing at all."

His embrace turned tight as he held her more firmly, and she felt an abrupt exhalation in her hair. "God, Wendla," he said, and the quiver in his voice told her even before the telltale damp touch on her scalp that he was crying. "I don't deserve you."

"You saved me," she whispered, bringing her arms up to hold him. They ached at that angle but she held it anyway, desperate to offer at least a fraction of the comfort he had given her. "Not just from the basement, but from everything."

"You're more than capable of saving yourself from everything," he said, and she felt the firm touch of his lips as he kissed her temple. "But I'm not capable of being without you. You know that, right?"

She did. If only because it was the same way she felt about him. "I'm afraid to leave this place, Melchior," she admitted. "Even just to the house. I don't want to go."

"We'll do it together, _liebling_." He kissed her again, gentle and sure. "I won't let anything happen to you—never again."

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><p><em>Glücklich und zufrieden bis an unsere Lebensende: Happily ever after.<em>


	13. Chapter 13

_A/N: Hi, all! It's been a little while, so I thought a new chapter might be in order. Just a warning. It's possible there might be the teeniest sort of cliffhanger at the end. Just saying. ;-) All standard disclaimers apply._

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><p><strong>Kindheit Ende<strong>

When Wendla worked up the nerve to try, they found she could not yet stand and walk steadily under her own power. Using the muscles in her abdomen hurt too much, and her legs didn't want to hold her. She tried, leaning against Melchior and holding him to her tightly, but it obviously wasn't going to work. He slid her carefully into his arms, testing each touch before he committed to it, adamant about not hurting or frightening her. She was grateful for his care, but a part of her desperately wanted to be able to do even this small thing on her own—to walk under her own power and stand tall once again. Just a week or so ago these had been such easy things to do; she'd never even thought about not being able to. She wound her arms around Melchior's shoulders, holding herself to him tightly. Without him, she honestly didn't know what she'd do. For all she knew, she might very well be dead.

But when she said it, trying to convey to him the depths of her gratitude, his sweet, open face closed over with a terrible bitterness she'd never seen from him before. "No," he said firmly. "Without me, dear heart, you'd be safe in your mother's house. You'd never have been in trouble in the first place."

"I'd never have loved," she protested. "Please. I can't regret you. Don't try to make me."

"Regret?" He sighed and touched his forehead to hers. "You can't sit here and tell me you wouldn't take it back—wouldn't undo all the pain—if you could."

"I wouldn't," she said definitively. "I mean, I would. But...not if it means losing you." She slipped her arms around his shoulders and held him carefully. "Never having you." She could feel the tears pooling in her eyes, but she did her best to hold them back. She was tired of crying—tired of feeling like she wanted to cry. She understood that he felt guilty for not protecting her, but what he needed to understand was that it wasn't his fault. He wasn't responsible for others' actions. There was no way he could have known—no way either of them could have known—what her mother would do. No one in their right mind, she was sure, would have expected it.

"I hate what they did," she whispered, leaning against Melchior's smooth cheek, "and I hate even more that she knew. That she let them. If I could go back, knowing what I know now, I wouldn't have gone with her when she told me to. I would have run when I had the chance." She rubbed her cheek against his, breathing in the comforting smell of him. "But I wouldn't change what we did, you and me. I wouldn't change any of it."

He exhaled slowly, and Wendla felt his arms tighten around her. She loved the feeling of being surrounded by him, as if he could keep her safe from everything. She breathed slowly, concentrating on how it felt to be held by him, how different his hands were from the hard, demanding grip of Sonnenstich and his under-teachers. Even when he held her tightly, his hands firm on her tender skin, she was never in pain or afraid that he would hurt her. He understood that she was a person inside her skin, not just a body to be moved and manipulated and used at someone else's will, and she wasn't entirely sure but she thought that made all the difference. Because, in a way, he did want the same thing her attackers had wanted from her—to touch her body. But Melchior also wanted so much more. He wanted to hold her, and kiss her. He wanted to talk with her. She didn't know what the future would hold for them, but she knew that they would face it together. He'd made that much abundantly clear. He didn't want to subjugate her, or belittle her, or force her into doing things she didn't want to do. She had no doubt that if she ever became uncomfortable when he touched her, he would immediately stop. Even now, as they prepared to make the short trip to the house so she could bathe, he had waited until she was ready. If she had said she didn't want to, she felt sure he would have respected that. And, to her, that made all the difference in the world. It didn't matter that he desired to touch between her legs just as Sonnenstich had. It wasn't the same thing at all. Melchior made her feel so differently, and she just couldn't believe the act was essentially the same when it _felt_ so different.

Slowly he moved, stepping forward carefully toward the trapdoor. Wendla knew this conversation was far from over, but his unwillingness to continue it meant that he wasn't ready. He still felt an immense amount of guilt, and he just wasn't ready to let that go, no matter what she said. She couldn't really blame him, either, despite the fact that she knew he had nothing to feel guilty for. He had promised her the gift of time—time to recover, time to come to terms with what had happened to her. She was more than willing to extend him the same.

Getting down the ladder was awkward, but they managed. Wendla held him tightly, tucking her head down against his shoulder, as he strode quickly across the yard and into the house. She felt horribly exposed even in the big, baggy nightshirt—daylight and open air made her extremely uncomfortable. Melchior promised that they were alone, save for his mother, but there was always a chance someone might stroll up the lane for one reason or another. Her heart picked up speed and she pressed herself close against his firm body as he carried her. She hated feeling so scared, but she couldn't help it. There were too many variables still at play—her mother, and Sonnenstich, and the other teachers. She didn't know exactly how long she'd been in Melchior's care, but they had to know she was gone by now. Were they looking for her? Had they told her mother? If everyone thought Melchior was still at the reformatory, they were probably fairly safe in the hayloft. No one would think to look for her there. But if someone saw her out in the open on the Gabor property, word was bound to get back to her captors sooner or later.

"It's okay, _liebling_," Melchior said softly, and Wendla opened her eyes slowly to find that they had slipped inside. "You're safe. You're safe."

"He's right," Frau Gabor said. She smiled warmly as Wendla slowly untucked her head from its spot in the crook of Melchior's shoulder. "My husband is at work, and it's just us. Don't be afraid, child."

Wendla was glad Frau Gabor did not say anything about the fact that Melchior was carrying her. She was quiet as they moved through the house, though she looked at everything with wide eyes. Her mother's house was one of the nicer ones in town, but the Gabor house was definitely more opulent. She hadn't been inside this house since she was a very small child, and back then she had not noticed the rich shine on the wooden balustrade or the gleaming, high-quality copper pots in the kitchen.

"I put the tub in the parlor," Frau Gabor said as she opened a door and waved them inside. "It's more private than the kitchen, and the stove will keep you warm." She paused and touched Wendla's cheek softly as Melchior moved into the room. "I hope you'll feel better, even just a little."

"Thank you," Wendla whispered, and she tried to find a smile. Truly, this woman had been more than kind to her, and she didn't quite know how to react. There did not seem to be any ulterior motive behind Frau Gabor's kindness, but as the fever slowly receded and her mind came back under her control, Wendla couldn't help but feel a thread of caution seep through her system. Her own mother had betrayed her in a way she never could have expected, and never would forgive. If her _mother_ could do such a thing, what of other people? She wasn't capable of doubting Melchior, but that unflinching trust did not extend farther than the boy currently holding her close to his body.

Frau Gabor gave her one last gentle pat before leaving the room and closing the door behind her. Melchior let out a breath and squeezed her softly, as if to reassure her that he was with her, before setting her gently down on an elegant armchair. Wendla knew perfectly well that a parlor was meant for entertaining special guests and was therefore the most immaculate part of the home, and that didn't make her feel any less out-of-place as she sat in a boy's rumpled nightshirt, her hair in disarray and her feet bare, and watched as Melchior checked the fire in the stove and tossed another log in.

"How do you want to do this?" he asked, turning back to her carefully. "I want you to be as comfortable as you possibly can. I'll leave you alone if you like, or stay with you—whatever you prefer."

"Stay, please," she said quickly, stretching a hand out for his. She didn't even have to think about it. She didn't want to be alone, especially in this unfamiliar house. Though her mind understood that nothing was lurking in wait for her, she still felt so much safer with him near. And not only safer—she _wanted_ him with her. She didn't at all like the thought of them being apart for longer than necessary. Though she had sided with his mother yesterday when she insisted upon Melchior taking his own bath, she still didn't want to be without him.

"Are you sure?" he asked carefully. "I know you know I've seen you before, but I just don't—"

"I'm sure." She tugged on the hand he'd given her, and he knelt next to the armchair. "You're safe, Melchior. I know it sounds silly; I don't know how else to say it. I trust you."

"Okay." He leaned up and kissed her softly, moving slowly and giving her plenty of time to stop him if she wanted to. "But tell me if you get uncomfortable. Please?"

They worked together to unbutton the wrists and throat of her nightshirt, and Melchior swallowed hard as he slipped it over her head. He didn't know how well either of them would handle seeing her naked body and the terrible evidence of abuse. While she was covered from chin to toes in his nightshirt, it was easy enough to almost pretend as if the bruises and wounds weren't there—to touch her gently, yes, but not bear constant witness to the awful reminders of what she'd gone through. But as soon as the fabric was lifted away from her supple skin, pretending was no longer an option. He held her eyes as much as possible, but even through peripheral vision he could see that very little healing had happened yet. The awful bruise across her belly was darker, if anything.

Wendla had not been awake or lucid the last time her clothes were removed, and Melchior could do nothing but watch quietly, his heart breaking yet again, as she took in her marked flesh for the first time. She shivered when the heavy nightshirt was removed, and he hastened to help her into the big copper bathing tub that his mother had placed right next to the stove. She hissed slightly as the hot water touched her skin, but then she almost melted into it. Melchior would have smiled if he hadn't felt so much like crying.

For full minutes, neither said a word. Wendla slowly looked at her body, one small piece at a time, turning over her arm to see the raw red marks completely encircling her wrists, dropping her chin to her chest to examine the mottled bruises that covered her breasts, and the red, painful-looking nipples. She looked at her legs, and the juncture between them, dusted ever so lightly with soft, dark hair. Her hands, shaking slightly, slipped over her abdomen, covering the big, dark bruise.

"I didn't remember," she murmured, her voice almost a ghost. Melchior could hear his mother in the kitchen; the sounds of domestic puttering almost swallowed Wendla's words, despite her proximity. "Not until just now, when I saw it."

"What didn't you remember, _liebling_?" he asked carefully. He wasn't at all sure he wanted to know the answer, but it seemed to be the appropriate thing to say.

"He kicked me." Her voice was no louder. There was an odd, almost dreamy quality to it, as if she were talking to herself and not to him at all. Perhaps she was. "Not Sonnenstich. One of the others. I don't really...everything's still so blurry." She rubbed her face with her wet hands. "I don't know why he did it. Maybe it was th-the baby. Maybe I did something he didn't like. I don't know."

"Does it really matter so much to you?" He watched her with care, not knowing what sort of response his words might elicit. "Does it really matter why they did it?"

"Yes," she said firmly, "it does."

"Why?" He carefully reached out and brushed his hand across her bare shoulder. Her skin was hot, baking in the heat of the stove, and it glowed with its own light. She was so incredibly beautiful. Even now, marred by the marks of a terrible ordeal, she was still easily the most beautiful thing he'd ever seen in his life. He didn't know how it was possible that she'd chosen him, that she let him touch her and love her, when she could have had any boy or man she wanted. She'd confessed to him once, before everything imploded, that the girls in town doted on him. Shy and nervy at the same time, she'd giggled and turned red as she admitted it. Well, what she didn't know was that the boys in town felt the same about her. The problem was, it wasn't just the boys. It was the young men, too, and the older ones. She was such a fetching creature, from an upright and well-to-do family. Several older men looking for second wives after the deaths of their first had mentioned waiting until she came of age, and when he heard talk like that it always turned Melchior's stomach. He was positive that wasn't the life she would want—raising someone else's children, caring for an old man while she was still in her prime. Plenty of girls did it, because their parents approved of the security an older husband could give them. But Melchior did not for one minute believe Wendla would want such a life no matter what her mother might say.

But that had been the last thing on his mind when she found him in his parents' hayloft, sulking over their last violent encounter. All he could think about was that Wendla was with him—she filled his senses, then and now, to the exclusion of everything else. He still didn't know how someone so small could fill him so completely. She was warm skin and full lips, soft curls of hair and the biggest, sweetest brown eyes he'd ever seen on anyone. When she looked up at him with that way she had, utterly ingenuous and guileless, he was helpless to look away or even move a muscle. When she put her hand on his arm, rubbing softly and entreating him to forgive her, he hadn't been able to either resist or think about anything else. She was with him. She was his world.

And that had not changed, despite everything that had happened in the short time between their first passionate encounter and this moment. He touched her shoulder, his fingertips gliding across the hot skin, and felt the same awe that she allowed this from him—him, and no one else.

"Please don't take it the wrong way," he said quickly. "I don't—I just really want to know why. Why is it so important to you to know why they did it?"

"Because," she said softly, tracing her wet fingers across the bruise on her abdomen, just under the waterline, "I need to know. If someone hurt you, wouldn't you want to know why?"

"Of course." He shifted a little closer and pressed his lips against her smooth shoulder. There was blood in the water—not much, but the slowly swirling tendrils of scarlet were a grim reminder that she wasn't better, despite the fact that her fever was lessening and she was much more lucid. "But if another boy walked up and socked me in the schoolyard, I'd have a valid reason to wonder why. This—this is different. They hurt you because they wanted to, Wendla. Because it gave them pleasure to do it. I don't think there's much more to it. They might justify it in their minds as teaching you a lesson, but honestly, did it? Really?"

"My body gave you pleasure," Wendla said quietly, her voice falling again so he could barely hear her. "But you didn't hurt me."

"I'm not sick like them," he said tightly. "What we did, Wendla, you and me...it's normal. It's what couples _do_. And it's beautiful, and I truly believe that if it's done right, it's good for both the man and the woman." He hesitated. He wanted the answer to his next question, but at the same time, he was nervous. "Was it good for you?"

A shiver whispered down her spine; he felt her quiver under his hand. "So much," she murmured. He swallowed hard, heat blooming through his body at the low words. "Everything—you were—I can't explain it."

Her skin, already scorching from the fire, heated impossibly more under his hand as she spoke, and her eyes half closed. He watched, enthralled, as her nipples hardened just at the memory of what they'd experienced together. He desperately wanted to give her that feeling again, to hear her cry out in pleasure rather than pain, but her soft breasts were still badly bruised, her nipples raw, and he didn't even want to think about where she was bleeding. "I'll make you feel good again," he promised, whispering the words against her shoulder. "Just like that—better, even. But your body doesn't want it right now, no matter how much it thinks it does." He moved slightly, pressing a soft kiss against her throat. "You have to understand that I don't want the same thing they want, though, Wendla. Not really. They're sick. They want to hurt—they find their pleasure in someone else's pain. Your mama gave them a convenient excuse, but make no mistake—you didn't cause any of that to happen. It wasn't your fault at all."

"That explains some of it," she said, her face drawn up in a troubled frown, her voice both contemplative and unhappy. "The power high, maybe. The three of them being able to force me to do things I didn't want to do. The...the..."

"_Vergewaltigung_," Melchior supplied gently. "That's the word you want, _liebling_."

"_Vergewaltigung_," she repeated, sounding it out carefully. "What does it mean?"

"Forcing unwanted sexual acts on another person. Like they did to you. I saw how they had you tied up when I found you. They touched you, too, didn't they." It wasn't a question. He already knew. The machine was bad enough, but they wouldn't have stopped with metal and rubber; not when they had a girl as beautiful as Wendla under their control.

She nodded slowly, dropping her head to stare at her bent knees poking out of the water. "I fought," she whispered, "but they just laughed and did it anyway, and they beat me raw for struggling. Melchior, I—"

"Shh," he said, shushing her as her voice broke. He slipped his arms around her shoulders, wishing the copper tub wasn't currently separating the rest of their bodies, and let her tuck her head close against his neck. She was crying again, though that was no surprise. How could she not, after everything she'd been through? "You don't have to talk about it if you don't want to. You don't have to do anything you don't want to, _liebling_. Not anymore."

But she seemed to want to—or at least part of her did. She sniffled and exhaled shakily against him, and when she drew another breath, she spoke. "But that kick, Melchior. That was different. It wasn't about...sex...and I don't understand."

"It was about power, which amounts to the same thing with men like that," he said tightly. "You didn't do anything to deserve it. Maybe something you did irritated him, though that doesn't make it your fault. Maybe it _was_ the baby—the thought of it, of you having this thing you loved and wanted, when their desire was to break you. Maybe he didn't even think about it at all, and just did it. There doesn't have to be a reason. I know it's not the answer you're looking for, and I'm so, so sorry for that. But, dear heart, what you have to understand is that it doesn't matter. His reasoning doesn't matter. Because he was _wrong_, no matter what he was thinking. And if it wasn't this injury, it would have been another one. Cruelty for cruelty's sake doesn't answer to logic."

She sniffed again, still crying, but did not attempt to argue with him.

"Wendla, I will never be able to tell you just how sorry I am," he said quietly. "If I had any clue what was going to happen, I would never have let you go back to your mother. That afternoon in the hayloft—I would have gathered our things and we could have run that day. Far away from here." He kissed her warm hair. "I let you go when you said you needed to get home to your mama, and that will perhaps always be my biggest regret. You have to know I'm never letting you go again."

A faint smile fluttered at the corners of her mouth. Yes, she knew that. And she was ridiculously glad of it. But wishing to change the past wasn't going to get them anywhere, because the past couldn't be changed. Melchior had been sent away, and she had been taken to Herr Sonnenstich's basement as punishment for loving the boy of her dreams. Their unborn child had been taken from them, and her body and mind had been nearly broken by the incessant abuse. These were all facts that could not be changed, though she held onto hope with a tenuous grip—hope that they could be surmounted. Hope that she and Melchior could find a way out of this mess, and something beautiful could somehow be wrought out of the ashes of their childhoods.

But it would be a long road, and she knew that. Even thinking Sonnenstich's name sent a dark seam of fear shooting straight to the pit of her stomach. He was with her even now, his voice dark and loud in her memory. He wanted her to suffer. He wanted her to learn a lesson, to bend to his will, to become a puppet, a plaything, and nothing more. The pain had almost been too much. If Melchior had not come for her when he did, if she had had to stay locked to that machine for the entire night, Wendla honestly didn't know whether she would have had the strength to keep struggling.

A shiver bled through her at the thought of capitulation—at how close she had come to giving in. Melchior felt it, and he shifted slightly, his warm body moving against hers. "What is it?" he asked, his voice achingly gentle.

"Sonnenstich," she said honestly, though she knew Melchior had trouble hearing the truth. "The things he said...sometimes I can't get them out of my head."

"Tell me," he suggested, still soft, still gentle. "Maybe it will help."

She tipped her face up from her hiding spot in the crook of his neck, considering. His blue eyes were haunted as they met hers, but there was acceptance there, too, and a willingness to take whatever burden she could no longer carry on her own. He was hers—hers to love, and hers to lean on when she needed. He wanted her to feel better above all, and for that to happen, sometimes the bad feelings inside needed an outlet. She took a deep breath and dropped her eyes, unable to watch him and talk at the same time. Not about this.

"He said the only way to forgiveness was through him," she said quietly, and a bitter laugh was torn from her throat. "Like Jesus."

"Many men like to play god. None have made the world a better place because of it, as far as I'm concerned," Melchior said tightly. "Go on."

"He wanted me to submit willingly. To give myself over to him. To accept punishment—beg for it, even. He told me more than once that my will is not my own, that I must learn to accept his will as law, first as a woman under his care, and then as a child."

"Fucking devil." Melchior held her tightly, and she felt his lips in her hair. He'd been doing that a lot lately—kissing her hair or forehead—as if he were afraid to touch much more of her. "Your will is utterly your own, _liebling_, and don't you dare let anyone else tell you otherwise." He let out a long breath. "I'm sorry. I'm so..." He shook his head, releasing her abruptly. Wendla felt cold suddenly, though the heat from the water and the stove still enveloped her. "You're your own person, Wendla," he said, and he moved until their eyes locked, blue to brown. The fervency in his voice made her unable to look away. He reached into the water and found her hand, linking their fingers, his palm pressed against her knuckles. "This is _your_ hand, attached to _your_ arm, and _you_ get to decide what to do with it. Nobody else. Submission is a gift you can give to someone else when you choose to, but it's not a requirement of womanhood—or childhood, as far as I'm concerned."

"Do you want it?" she asked hesitantly, a little afraid of what his answer might be.

But he did not seem angry—in fact, he smiled, though the gesture was wistful. "Sometimes," he said. "But not like they do. You submitted to me in the hayloft when I kissed you, and I touched you, and you let me. You could have fought me, and said no, and I would have stopped. But you didn't."

"I wanted you," she whispered, feeling her face growing red again. "I didn't know what I wanted, really, only that it was you."

"So you submitted to what we both wanted," he said softly. "And every time I touch you—every time I make a request of you—you have the option to acquiesce or not, as you please. Just as I do. Just as any other free human being does. You are your own person, Wendla. What's more, this body that he longed so badly to possess—it belongs to you. Not him." He offered a lopsided smile, though there was no happiness to it. "Not me. Just you." He took their entwined hands, his palm still pressed against her knuckles, and carefully moved so her hand was touching her breast. "This is yours," he whispered as she cupped the bruised flesh, gentle with her own wounds. His hand fell away, sliding up her arm and holding her shoulder gently. "All of it is yours. You get to decide what to do with it. Nobody else."

Nobody had ever said anything like that to her before, and the concept was both strange and off-putting. She knew her body was her own...sort of. This was her hand, she thought, squeezing her bruised breast lightly. It hurt, but _she_ had done it. _She_ had chosen to, and no one else. She ran her thumb across the small nipple, and that hurt, too, though differently. The feeling was sharper, and the water from her fingers stung as if she was cut. Knowing what they'd done to her, she supposed it was entirely possible.

Melchior was with her; she could feel him sitting near the tub, and she was glad of him even in this private moment as she ran her hand down her belly, feeling the body that was so familiar to her and yet foreign, too. She wasn't used to all this pain, and the marks left behind by the teachers' rough treatment. And this idea of inhabiting her own body—that it was hers and no one else's...it wasn't...she didn't know what to think. All her life, people had been demanding her submission, with both her body and mind. She was supposed to give her soul to God, and obedience to her mama and papa, and later to her husband. These were the rules. This was life. Now Melchior was telling her something completely different, and yet it made a certain amount of sense. This was _her_ body. She lived in it. Why shouldn't she have control over what happened to it?

"It's all yours, Wendla," he said softly as she continued to look at her body with new eyes. "All of it—every inch. Even—especially—there," he added, as her hand slid slowly between her legs, testing how tender her flesh was. It hurt, and the cramping in her abdomen grew worse as she touched around the sore opening where so many things had been forced up inside her. She flinched, moving her fingers away, and was not entirely surprised when her fingertips came away with watery blood on them. She swirled her hand in the water, rinsing away the red evidence of her unborn child's passing, and closed her eyes tightly.

But Melchior was with her and, as always, his words soothed the raw pain of hurt and betrayal. "You choose who touches you there, if anyone," he said. "That's _your_ choice, and if someone takes that choice away from you, that's a crime, Wendla."

"A crime?" She looked up at him quickly. That was news to her.

"Yes. A crime," he confirmed. "It's up to you, but when you're feeling better, we have recourse. We can try to make them pay for what they've done."

The thought that what had been done to her was, on some level, not permitted, filled Wendla with a strange kind of hope. Yes, she thought. Yes, she wanted to make them pay. She wanted everyone to know what they were capable of. Because if not, what was to stop them from doing it again to someone else? Maybe someone who didn't have a Melchior to fight for her?

A sudden loud noise from outside the room made Wendla flinch, and she tensed in the hot water. They both turned toward the door, and Melchior's arm tightened around her shoulders. Wendla strained her ears, and after a moment she heard Frau Gabor's angry voice speaking quickly. Answering her was another voice—one she'd hoped she'd never have to hear again.

"Melchior," she whispered, her voice gone. "It's him—it's Herr Sonnenstich. He's here."

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><p><em>AN: Cliffhanger? Moi? I suspect you know how to make another chapter show up faster. ;-) Mwah! Love you, duckies!_


	14. Chapter 14

_A/N: Happy belated birthday to both BruisedSmile and HgHplove, both of whom asked for another chapter of this as a present, and how can I possibly deny a birthday girl, let alone two? All standard disclaimers apply._

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><p><strong>Kindheit Ende<strong>

"_Guten __Tag_, Frau Gabor."

Fanny could only stare at the tall man in her kitchen. He'd opened the door without knocking, and the falsely-pleasant lilt to his voice did not hide the fact that his eyes were skimming the room, searching for anything out of the ordinary. His sharp, hard features settled into something a little closer to displeasure as he found nothing overtly incriminating. Without asking, she knew exactly why he was here and what he wanted. Or, rather, who.

The children.

And there was no way in hell she was going to let that happen.

"It's not polite to barge in on a lady in her own house," she reprimanded, attempting to keep her tone light at first. There was no telling what this man knew or didn't know, and she wasn't going to give him anything to be suspicious about if she could help it. "To what do I owe the pleasure of this visit, Herr Sonnenstich? Forgive me, but I don't believe I have any pupils under your tutelage at the moment."

His mouth drew up in a mocking smile. Fanny bristled at the sight. This man might be well respected in the community, but he was still technically trespassing. Despite the fact that he was clearly in the wrong, though, she couldn't help but acknowledge the fact that she and the children were very much alone here in the house. No one even knew where Melchior and Wendla were. There were no close neighbors to call on, and Otto was at work in town. Wendla was in no shape to even walk, let alone defend herself, which meant that Fanny and Melchior were very much on their own.

"Don't play coy, Frau Gabor," the headmaster said, folding his arms and stepping further into the room. "It becomes young girls, not matrons."

"I'm sure I haven't the slightest idea what you're suggesting." Fanny forced her voice to remain steady, her hands sure and swift as she continued slicing potatoes and onions—the task she had been doing before the sudden interruption. She thanked God that she had had the sense to put Wendla's bath in the parlor, behind a firmly-closed door. Normally they bathed in front of the heat of the kitchen stove, but she'd wanted to give the girl a little much-needed privacy, and the kitchen was so large and open that she hadn't thought Wendla would feel comfortable there. Now she thanked whatever guardian angels might be looking after the girl, for sparing her such a terrible encounter. Now if Fanny could only get the headmaster to leave...

"I think you do." Sonnenstich stepped forward again, and though he wasn't close to her, the motion had an unmistakable air of menace to it. "I heard you had a very interesting conversation with Frau Bergmann not too long ago."

Fanny froze. Well, that clinched it. If there was any question left at all about Wendla's mother's involvement, it was now gone. The woman had taken what information Fanny gave her and immediately turned it over to the headmaster. Melchior's mother was just thankful that she'd been mindful enough not to give the woman the whole story. Neither Frau Bergmann nor the headmaster _knew_ that Wendla was in the house right now, though they probably suspected. She only hoped the headmaster would go away quickly, or Melchior was capable of some fast thinking. Because otherwise, this was going to end very, very badly.

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><p>Melchior's hand closed quickly over Wendla's mouth, muffling the terrified whimper that tried to escape her lips. Her dark eyes were wide with fear, but it was the other emotion showing that almost broke him. He didn't have a word for it—not resignation, not quite, but a knowledge of the futility of their situation, and it was awful to behold. The spark of hope, of life, absolutely died in those soft, sweet eyes the minute she heard Sonnenstich's voice.<p>

In that instant, Melchior vowed—and not for the first time—that he was going to see to it that his former headmaster paid dearly for what he'd done to Wendla. The only reason the man was still alive and walking was because Wendla needed him more than she needed retribution. If he weren't so unwilling to be parted from her, all bets would be off.

"Not a sound," he breathed softly against her ear, slowly removing his hand from her lips. Her eyes darted from the closed door back to him, silently begging for reassurance he could not give her. The door didn't lock, and even if it did, if Sonnenstich started searching the house, a lock would be a dead giveaway. He would know instantly that Melchior's mother was hiding something the moment he tried the door.

Melchior didn't know how long his mother would be able to stall the headmaster, so he had to think fast. He shifted his weight and slipped his arms under Wendla's, inching her weight bit by bit into his arms. "Very slowly," he breathed in her ear. "Excruciatingly slowly, dear heart. There can't be any splashes."

Excruciatingly slow was right. Melchior wanted nothing more than to snatch her up, but if Sonnenstich heard the slosh of water from the tub, he would know someone else was in the house. And yet, listening to the muffled voices through the door, it was impossible to know when or if the man might suddenly come bursting in. They had to be as slow and quiet as possible, and hope that that didn't happen.

Wendla did not appear to like this at all, and Melchior couldn't blame her. He clutched her close to his chest, willingly soaking his clothes rather than hear the tinkling splash of water back into the tub. "Easy, _liebling_," he murmured as she clung to him, shaking with what he guessed was probably a mixture of cold and fear as her wet skin met the cooler air away from the stove. Fury burned in his system. Part of him wanted nothing more than to put her down, open the door, and rush Sonnenstich with whatever improvised weapon he could find. This man—this _monster_—had not only abused but blatantly tortured an innocent girl. _His_ girl. And for what? The crime of loving. Nothing more.

But he wasn't physically capable of leaving her, even to exact revenge on her attacker. She was terrified, and he honestly could not leave her in such a state. Not for anything. Instead, he glanced furtively around the room. There had to be a place for them to hide—something they could do. He couldn't just stand here and wait to be caught. For himself, he didn't care at all what they tried to do to him. But he refused to let Wendla be subjected to that man again. He'd promised her multiple times that that was never going to happen again—that she was safe—and he was going to keep that promise if it killed him. She was too fragile now, her body slowly beginning the healing process but still so weak, and he didn't honestly know if she could withstand the physical strain of capture.

But there was nowhere in the room for them to hide—no closet, no furniture large enough to climb in or under—and Melchior could only think of one option. Carefully, setting each booted foot down as gingerly as possible and hoping the floorboards didn't squeak, he moved slowly toward the window. It had been closed to keep the heat from the stove in the room, but he sidled carefully up to it and paused.

"I don't have a free hand, Wendla," he murmured softly in her ear. "Reach up and open the window—can you do that? We have to get out of here."

She turned, untucking her face from its hiding place in the crook of his neck, and reached trembling fingers toward the latch. After a fumbling moment, she was able to unhook the latch with a soft snicking sound that Melchior hoped was too quiet for Sonnenstich to hear. The paned window opened outward with a hinge at the top, and Wendla pushed, her arms shaking as she forced her body to perform in ways it wasn't ready for. She locked her elbows resolutely and pushed again, forcing the window up. It creaked, and some paint flaked off the frame, but between them they managed to shift until she could dangle her bare legs out the window.

"It's okay," he promised softly, easing her body further out the window. She was crying silently, her jaw clamped tightly shut against any noise. "I'm right behind you."

Easing her out the window and away from his arms was perhaps the most difficult thing he'd ever done, Melchior thought. Physically it was awkward, and the added requirement of being silent and therefore slow grated on him. But the worst part was knowing that she was outside without him—that there was a barrier between them, and if something happened to her, he wouldn't necessarily be able to stop it. He shuddered as he held her arms, helping her inch her body down the outside wall, leaning against it. The sound of soft skin scraping against wood wasn't loud, but he hated it just the same.

She crumpled when he released her, huddling on the ground under the window, shivering as her bare, wet skin was exposed to the breeze.

The raised voices were still arguing out in the main area of the house, which made Melchior breathe a sigh of relief. He grabbed Wendla's old nightshirt from the arm of a chair before he started wiggling his own way out the window. There was a clean one folded neatly next to the tub, but if he left the soiled one lying around and Sonnenstich saw it, he might get suspicious. It was extremely possible he might get suspicious anyway—more than he already was—but Melchior didn't want to add to the problem if he could help it. Carefully he pushed himself out the window headfirst, his eyes on Wendla's huddled form the entire time. The window had accommodated Wendla's smaller body easily, but he had to squeeze and push to get his shoulders and broad chest through, certain at any moment that Sonnenstich was going to burst through the parlor door and grab his ankle.

As soon as he was on the ground next to Wendla, he pushed the nightshirt into her arms, snatched her up, and started to run. Doubled over as much as he could get with a girl in his arms, hoping against hope that Sonnenstich wasn't looking out a back window, he bolted across the yard. Wendla made a small noise of protest as he bypassed the barn, but the hayloft would do them no good right now and, though he hated her tight little unhappy whimper, he kept to his original plan and plunged into the forest. He knew she liked the hayloft, that she felt safe up there, but if Sonnenstich discovered their hiding place they would be effectively cornered. There was no way in or out of that place except the trapdoor and ladder, and he just couldn't take that chance, even for her comfort.

As he ran deeper into the woods, Melchior honestly didn't know what was going to happen next. If Sonnenstich had seen them run, this was going to turn into a very dire game of cat-and-mouse. Even if they managed to elude him, they wouldn't be able to return to his parents' house. But if Sonnenstich hadn't seen them...well, even then, Melchior didn't honestly know what to do. What he _wanted_ to do. The only thing that mattered was keeping Wendla safe. Beyond that, there was nothing.

They moved deeper into the forest, and after a while Melchior dropped to a walk. Wendla was clutching him desperately, her breath coming in hot pants against his neck, and she seemed to be trying to curl herself into the smallest space possible, as if she could almost disappear inside him if she made herself small enough and held him tight enough. He hugged her tightly, wishing fervently that he could say something comforting. But there was nothing both comforting and truthful that he could offer except his love. There was no guarantee that Sonnenstich wasn't right behind them.

Finally Melchior stopped. He'd moved away from any tracks through the woods a while ago, and they were deep in the middle of nowhere now. He listened carefully, but the sounds of the forest seemed utterly normal. Soft wind hissed above them in the trees. Somewhere nearby a stream trickled. Every once in a while a bird sounded. No footsteps. No voices.

Exhaling deeply, Melchior chose a sheltered spot below a conifer, the ground cushioned with a soft covering of needles and the view obscured by some tall, curving bushes. It wasn't perfect, but they would be relatively hidden from prying eyes for at least a little while. The forest was big, and Sonnenstich was no woodsman. Unless he brought in a scent hound to track them, Melchior hoped that they were relatively safe.

For now.

"Wendla," he said softly, awkwardly maneuvering them to a sitting position. He was wet with sweat and water from her bath, and he knew he was going to get cold once the adrenaline of the situation wore off. Breathing deeply, trying to recover from their desperate flight, he settled her on his lap and carefully tugged the wadded-up nightshirt out of her grip. "It's okay. We can stop for a moment. I can't hear anyone following us."

He slipped the fabric over her chilled skin, and she helped with a will as he covered her with the clothing once again. "Please, Melchior," she begged softly, but he really had no idea what she was asking for. Nothing concrete, he was sure. While she desperately needed some very tangible things—food, shelter, warmth—it was the intangible that she craved, and he understood that all too well. She wanted safety and security, wanted peace and comfort. These were things he'd gladly give her in a heartbeat, if only he could. He had faith that they would come in time, assuming that they could get away from Sonnenstich and this terrible situation, but she needed them _now_, and that wasn't something he could do.

"I know," he said instead, wishing he could soothe her more. "I know."

Though it was a warm summer day, the woods were dark and cool. Melchior pulled her impossibly closer, letting her hide in the safety of his arms. No matter what, he wouldn't leave her. She was his to love, his to protect, and he wasn't going to fail. Not this time.

She continued to cry, mostly silently, as the afternoon lengthened into evening. Melchior wanted to tell her that she could let go and bawl if she wanted to, but he didn't quite dare. There was no telling where Sonnenstich was at this point—if he or anyone else was out in the woods looking for them, close enough to hear more than the softest murmur.

There was no telling _anything_, really, and for the first time, Melchior began considering the idea of heading away from this place immediately even though Wendla clearly wasn't physically ready for the journey. He could carry her, he tried to tell himself. He could walk the road toward Berlin, stopping whenever his arms gave out. It would be slow and difficult, and highly unpleasant for both of them, but was staying here really any better? She needed to be in a place where she felt safe enough to let her body and mind fully relax, where she could allow herself to be as weak as she needed to be while she healed. In this town, even in the safety of his mother's care, there was always the fear that someone would come—that they weren't really safe at all. One little mistake was all it would take for Sonnenstich to find them, and Melchior couldn't be sure that that hadn't already happened.

Berlin would be far better—his aunt was supposed to be in Paris, and no one would know where they were. They could stay in her house, he could tend to Wendla and figure out what to do next. A job was certainly in order if he was going to keep her comfortably. He was ready for all of it, but he didn't think Wendla was.

Still, this wasn't really any better.

She dozed fitfully as the evening deepened, never quite dropping into the good, deep sleep that would help her heal. They shared body heat in the gathering darkness, Melchior not daring to gather wood or light a fire. It would be an immediate beacon to find them, and he couldn't risk it. Still, as true night fell around them, he began to wonder what they should do next. They couldn't stay in the middle of the forest forever, and while Wendla was taking everything that had been thrown at her with more grace than Melchior could have expected from anybody, she would need food and a warmer place to sleep very soon. He and his schoolfriends had often spent summer nights outside, heading off on multi-day adventures, but he and Wendla weren't prepared, and she had no experience with roughing it as far as he knew.

"Melchior," she murmured, and he rubbed a hand up her arm.

"I thought you were asleep," he said softly, craning his neck to see her face. In the dark, she was a darker shadow among shadows, just the pale shine of her liquid eye giving her away. Her white nightshirt was easier to see, but even so close her face was obscured.

"No." She had been frantic earlier—terrified and unable to express it, pressing close to Melchior and willing herself to silence and stillness even though it was clear she wanted nothing more than to give herself over to the sobs. Now she just sounded tired—bone-weary and dull, as if she didn't have much hope left that things would ever get better. "I want to go back to the hayloft, Melchior," she said quietly. "Please, is it safe? We've been out here for hours."

That much was undeniably true. They'd been here for a long time. She wanted the hayloft, just as he'd suspected, but he didn't know whether that was such a wise idea. "We can try," he said, gathering her up in his arms. Assuming he could find his way back, of course. Wisely, he did not voice that thought out loud. He was reasonably sure he could find his house—these were the trees he'd played amongst as a child, after all.

"We should never have left it," she murmured, tucking her head back into the crook of his neck, which seemed to be fast becoming her new favorite spot. "We should never have gone into the house."

It wasn't, strictly speaking, true, but Melchior chose not to argue with her as he settled her more firmly in his arms and started picking his slow, careful way through the night-black forest. If they'd been in the hayloft, it was possible they would never have known Sonnenstich was on the property at all. Of course, it was also possible they could have been trapped up there with nowhere to run if he insisted on looking for them. All in all, Melchior tried to tell himself that they'd been extremely lucky. He understood her intense attachment to their little haven, though, and he desperately did not want to destroy it. She'd been through so much, and she deserved whatever happy feelings she could get, whether they be for a place, a person, or even a memory.

"You don't have to do anything you don't want to do," he said instead, focusing on the words that had almost become his mantra. So many choices had been wrested from her, and he was adamant that he wasn't going to be the cause of any more. "Never again. Not if I have anything to say about it."

"I'm tired of being afraid, Melchior."

"I know," he said quietly. "I wish there was something I could do to help, _liebling_."

Her breath was warm on his neck when he exhaled, and he felt a wash of tenderness flow through him. So precious. So sweet. She deserved all the peace and happiness she could handle—a life's worth, and more. It was all waiting for them, too, in Berlin; he was sure of it. But they had to get there first, and at the moment that seemed like an almost insurmountable task.

After a while in silence, she shifted against him again. "Will you let me try to walk again?" she asked quietly.

"Wendla, we tried just this morning and you could barely stand, let alone walk. Now it's dark and rocky, and you're barefoot."

"I hate feeling helpless," she said quietly, huddling against him. "You have to be tired of carrying me like this."

He chuckled, turning his head to kiss whatever skin he could reach. He understood what she was saying, but that didn't make it less sweet. "I'll never get tired of having you in my arms," he said, utterly honestly. "When I need to take a break, we'll stop for a while. As for helpless, _liebling_, I don't look at you that way at all. But you need to give your body time to heal before you start pushing yourself. We've already lost so much. I couldn't bear it if I lost you, too."

"I'm not going to die, Melchior." She moved her head slightly and kissed the shell of his ear. "I'm right here with you."

Which was where she was going to stay if he had anything to say about it. No one—not Sonnenstich, not her mother—was going to take her away from him.

"You've done so much—saved me so many times. I couldn't leave you; not even in death. I wouldn't let myself."

He believed it, too. She had an incredibly strong spirit. An incident from childhood suddenly rose up strong and vivid in his mind. They were young—no more than five or six years old—and had been playing a game of make-believe pirates on the grassy bank of the river, one of Wendla's favored haunts even back then. Melchior's father had just finished reading a translation of Robinson Crusoe to him, and every day he would excitedly relate the previous night's installment to his enraptured friends. On this particular day, he, Moritz, Wendla, and Ilse had been joined by Georg and Hanschen, the latter of whom did not often deign to get his hands dirty with the other boys in town. But that day he had been in a strange mood, and had demanded that the children all play cannibal, much like some of the characters Crusoe encountered in his adventures.

Moritz had balked, looking a little alarmed, though both Ilse and Georg seemed fine with the idea. Melchior remembered his best friend's nervous stammer as he tried to explain that even the thought of eating human flesh was a sin, and he didn't want to play at something so distasteful. Hanschen's perfect, sharp little face had screwed up in a mocking sneer, and it had only taken a moment for both he and Georg to pin Moritz to the ground, stating that _he_ could be the meal instead of the girls if he was going to act like a sissy.

And before Melchior had been able to do anything, _Wendla_ had been the one to step in. Furious and brilliant, the tiny little whirlwind had affixed herself to Georg's back, slamming at him with her fists, demanding that they let Moritz go. She pulled Hanschen's hair, screeching like a furious little harpy the whole while, and the boys had backed off. Not because she'd done any particular damage to them, but because the sheer force of her anger and protectiveness had been utterly overwhelming. And while Melchior still felt like that really had been his job, protecting Moritz—because it had _always_ been his job, and he'd done it well up until the end—he couldn't regret having witnessed the brilliant, impassioned ferocity of that little girl.

She had softened and matured since then, her mother's will driving out all behaviors and impulses unbecoming to a young woman…or, most of them, he revised quickly. But she was still the same person inside, he was sure of it. She spoke up so fervently for the plight of the day laborers, and she had a quick, resourceful mind that grasped new concepts rapidly. Her passion, though repressed by her mother's rough treatment, was unbroken even now; he just knew it. And if he could somehow bring it out, coax it back to life like a warm fire teased from last night's coals, he was sure she would be a brilliant, positive force in the world. How it would manifest, he had no idea. That would come in time as she grew and learned. But she would be something more than just a pretty doll, or a wife to keep house and bear children.

Though not if they couldn't get her safe right now, he reminded himself, pressing his mouth softly against her skin. She was chilled and trying to hide it, her body tense in his arms as she forced herself not to shiver. It was a valiant attempt, though he wished she wouldn't. He wanted to know exactly how she felt, without editing, so he could know how best to help her. She was remarkably good about not complaining, but she had to understand, didn't she, that shivering or tears wasn't the same as whining?

Picking his way carefully back toward his childhood home, step by step, took much more time than their headlong rush into the woods had, and Melchior suspected they were deep into the harshest part of the night when he finally found the edge of the woods by starshine. They emerged close to the lane that led to his parents' house, and he breathed a sigh of relief. At least he hadn't been too turned around in the dark.

He hurried a little faster, keeping to the woods rather than the road, not quite daring to step out into the moonlight. There was no sound of anyone else out and about—no voices, no footsteps other than his own—but he didn't trust his ears. Not with Wendla's safety on the line. So they skulked slowly through the edge of the forest, slipping through the shadows, until they reached the back of the yard.

The house was dark, save a single light burning in the parlor window. The question was...was that a welcoming beacon, or a warning to keep away? There was no way to know without investigating, but Melchior absolutely was not going to do so with Wendla in his arms. Gambling with his own safety was one thing, but gambling with hers was unthinkable.

However, if he wasn't going to take her with him to look around, that meant he had to leave her here. Alone.

Everything in him balked at that proposition. He hated it. _Loathed_ it. It didn't feel right at all, putting her down and just walking away. Even if it was only for a moment, he didn't know if he was capable of doing so. The alternative, though, was far worse. What if he took her, and Sonnenstich was still on the property, lying in wait? Melchior would have his hands full and no way to defend them.

As he wrestled with two unbearable choices, holding Wendla's stiff body close to his chest, the unmistakable sound of a snapping twig echoed through the night.

Melchior froze. Wendla's grip on him turned desperate, her forehead shoving into his neck, and she stopped breathing. He could only hope whoever-it-was hadn't seen them yet, as the clear sound of footsteps slowly drew closer.

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><p><em>AN: Is that another cliffhanger? Hmm. Didn't see that coming. Next chapter we'll find out just what happened in the house after Melchior and Wendla ran. Mwah! Loves you, duckies!_


	15. Chapter 15

_A/N: Hi, guys! Did you miss me? Lol, I think I should call this fic my "indie sleeper" because it doesn't get many reviews, but apparently y'all get upset when it isn't updated! ;-) _

_So, just to review, we left Wendla and Melchior alone in the forest just behind the Gabor farm, hearing someone coming toward them in the darkness. But before that, we left Fanny Gabor alone with Herr Sonnenstich, so we're going to back up a little bit and find out what happened with her, then return to our couple in the woods. Sound good? Let's go!_

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><p><strong>Kindheit Ende<strong>

"_Guten Tag_, Frau Gabor."

Fanny could only stare at the tall man in her kitchen. He'd opened the door without knocking, and the falsely-pleasant lilt to his voice did not hide the fact that his eyes were skimming the room, searching for anything out of the ordinary. His sharp, hard features settled into something a little closer to displeasure as he found nothing overtly incriminating. Without asking, she knew exactly why he was here and what he wanted. Or, rather, who.

The children.

And there was no way in hell she was going to let that happen.

"It's not polite to barge in on a lady in her own house," she reprimanded, attempting to keep her tone light at first. There was no telling what this man knew or didn't know, and she wasn't going to give him anything to be suspicious about if she could help it. "To what do I owe the pleasure of this visit, Herr Sonnenstich? Forgive me, but I don't believe I have any pupils under your tutelage at the moment."

His mouth drew up in a mocking smile. Fanny bristled at the sight. This man might be well respected in the community, but he was still technically trespassing. Despite the fact that he was clearly in the wrong, though, she couldn't help but acknowledge the fact that she and the children were very much alone here in the house. No one even knew where Melchior and Wendla were. There were no close neighbors to call on, and Otto was at work in town. Wendla was in no shape to even walk, let alone defend herself, which meant that Fanny and Melchior were very much on their own.

"Don't play coy, Frau Gabor," the headmaster said, folding his arms and stepping further into the room. "It becomes young girls, not matrons."

"I'm sure I haven't the slightest idea what you're suggesting." Fanny forced her voice to remain steady, her hands sure and swift as she continued slicing potatoes and onions—the task she had been doing before the sudden interruption. She thanked God that she had had the sense to put Wendla's bath in the parlor, behind a firmly-closed door. Normally they bathed in front of the heat of the kitchen stove, but she'd wanted to give the girl a little much-needed privacy, and the kitchen was so large and open that she hadn't thought Wendla would feel comfortable there. Now she thanked whatever guardian angels might be looking after the girl, for sparing her such a terrible encounter. Now if Fanny could only get the headmaster to leave...

"I think you do." Sonnenstich stepped forward again, and though he wasn't close to her, the motion had an unmistakable air of menace to it. "I heard you had a very interesting conversation with Frau Bergmann not too long ago."

Fanny froze. Well, that clinched it. If there was any question left at all about Wendla's mother's involvement, it was now gone. The woman had taken what information Fanny gave her and immediately turned it over to the headmaster. Melchior's mother was just thankful that she'd been mindful enough not to give the woman the whole story. Neither Frau Bergmann nor the headmaster _knew_ that Wendla was in the house right now, though they probably suspected. She only hoped the headmaster would go away quickly, or Melchior was capable of some quick thinking. Because otherwise, this was going to end very, very badly.

"That child," Herr Sonnenstich said clearly, "was under my care. By harboring her, you're kidnapping. I want to know where she is, and I want to know now."

"_Care_," Frau Gabor mocked. There was no point in bluffing now. Sonnenstich was in her house, and he had clearly spoken with Frau Bergmann. He knew Fanny knew where Wendla was; that much was obvious. He _didn't_ know the child was hiding mere feet away, behind an unlocked door. If he had, Fanny had no doubt that he would attempt to forcibly take her back. Melchior wouldn't stand for that, and a physical altercation was all but assured if her son and his former headmaster met. The only hope for escaping bloodshed was to keep Sonnenstich away from the children. "Is that what you call it?" she said, both hoping to distract the headmaster and letting herself give him just a little piece of her mind. "Beating and abusing the poor girl until she can't even walk and she jumps at every little sound?"

The corners of Herr Sonnenstich's mouth curled unpleasantly, and he leaned forward on the scrubbed wooden countertop. "So you _have_ seen her. You know where she is."

"She's not here," Fanny said stubbornly, refusing to admit anything. "Just as I told her mother."

"Ah, but you see, that's where I don't believe you." The headmaster looked at her calculatingly.

"You would not, I should hope, attempt violence in my house," Fanny said blandly, turning back to her work, making sure he saw the large knife in her hands. She had slaughtered chickens and goats and pigs, and while she knew that killing a human was a mortal sin, she was more than willing to do so if she had to, to defend the children. A man like this didn't deserve the same grace as other humans, no matter what the Bible said. "Otto will be home soon, and you have no rights here."

"But I have a legal right to that child—the right given to me by her mother," Sonnenstich said soundly. "Don't bare your teeth at me, woman. No court in the country would argue my right to fetch her back, and you know it."

And, as much as Fanny hated to admit it, he was right. Legally, if Frau Bergmann had given her consent as Wendla's legal guardian, Sonnenstich had the authority to take her and do what he pleased. Only Frau Bergmann could challenge that now. But there was more than one way to view matters of right and wrong, and Fanny knew in her heart that she just couldn't turn Wendla over to this monster. Not if she wanted to live with herself afterward. "She isn't here," she repeated firmly. May God forgive her for the lie, she thought, but protecting the child was more important.

"If she isn't here," Sonnenstich said in a deceptively pleasant voice, "then you won't mind proving it to me."

"I'm rather busy at the moment," Fanny said, turning back to her cooking. She was stalling, and she was afraid that he knew it. But what could she do? If she refused his request, he would know she was hiding something. If she didn't, he would almost certainly find the children within a matter of minutes. He would take Wendla, and who knew what he might do to Melchior in retribution?

"Let's start with the outbuildings, shall we?" Sonnenstich said, waving his arm toward the doorway, gesturing her to precede him into the farmyard. "You did specifically tell Frau Bergman that Wendla wasn't in your _house_."

Wendla's mother had not picked up on that subtle distinction, but Fanny wasn't entirely surprised that Sonnenstich did. He was remarkably clever, which was why the townsfolk put up with him. He was canny, and good at his job, and that made him a dangerous foe indeed.

"I won't ask so nicely again," the man said threateningly, and Fanny took a deep breath. She was a woman more or less alone, and he'd made it very clear that he knew it. Maybe, she thought hopefully, maybe while Sonnenstich was distracted searching the outbuildings, Melchior would be able to hide Wendla somewhere safer than their current whereabouts.

So, though she was entirely unwilling, Frau Gabor wiped her hands on her apron and stepped into the yard, her skin crawling as the headmaster followed close at her heels.

"The barn first," he commanded, and she threw open the doors to the large building, hiding her tense fists in the folds of her apron. She stood next to the door, watching his every move as Herr Sonnenstich inspected the wagon, the bins of feed, the racks of wood and metal equipment. He peered into dark corners, shook the pile of empty burlap sacks, and carefully inspected the walls as if he thought there might be a hidden room behind them.

Just then, out of the corner of her eye, Frau Gabor caught a flash of movement. She turned her head slightly, hoping Sonnenstich would not notice, and caught a glimpse of Melchior's back disappearing into the forest behind the house. Breathing a silent sigh of relief, she turned back to the headmaster with renewed calm. Let him look—he would not find the children here. She hadn't specifically seen Wendla, but she knew better than to think that Melchior would abandon her. They were both safe for the time being, and that was all she could hope for. The future wouldn't matter if they didn't survive the present.

But as Sonnenstich placed a foot on the ladder leading to the hayloft, Frau Gabor paled. Oh, she hadn't even thought about him searching the hayloft. He wouldn't find the children, but he would most certainly find evidence that someone was living up there. It wasn't a dead giveaway, but it was suspicious. This was not a town overly friendly to drifters, and he would not believe her if she tried to claim they had let one take up residence in their barn.

As Herr Sonnenstich climbed slowly up the ladder, Fanny's quick mind raced to try to concoct a reasonable answer for the bed in the hayloft. She watched him disappear through the trapdoor, and heard the sound of fumbling and searching through the various items up there. There was a sharp sound as he threw a crockery cup and it shattered on the dirt floor by Fanny's feet.

"There was no need for that," she scolded in her best upset-mother voice.

"This is a very interesting hayloft, Frau Gabor," Sonnenstich said, poking his head back through the trapdoor. The expression on his face made her stomach churn.

"I don't find it particularly interesting," she said with a sniff. "It's stuffy and dark, and there are mice."

"Hence the cats?" He lowered himself back down the ladder, holding something in his hand that she could not see in the dim light coming through the barn door. "Mind telling me what the cozy little sleeping area up there is all about?"

"If you must know," Fanny said, hoping against hope that he wouldn't turn around and ask Otto the next time he saw him, "we've taken on a boy to help with the chores while Melchior is gone. Naturally he doesn't stay in the house with us. The hayloft is good enough."

"Ah." Sonnenstich raised a considering eyebrow. "A wise choice—a very wise choice. Your poor husband has enough to do, I'm sure, without having to take on the work of his ne'er-do-well son."

Fanny stifled her automatic outrage, knowing he was simply baiting her. She loved Melchior, and while she'd been angry and distressed enough to agree to send him away, she didn't feel like that anymore. He wasn't a ne'er-do-well. He didn't belong in a school like that, with boys who would never amount to anything. Melchior was a bright, caring, sensitive young man. While she had to admit that there was a certain insolence to him, particularly where religion was concerned, his crimes were deeds of improvidence, not evil. They were not things for which she wanted him punished for the rest of his life.

"Only one thing," Herr Sonnenstich continued, and he turned more fully toward her, showing her what he held in his hand. "Strange that the uneducated son of a day laborer—a boy you hired to live in your hayloft and tend your farm—should be reading Faust." The hard green book lay on his open palm, like the blood on the hands of Lady Macbeth. Knowledge was something that could never be washed away; what was known could never be unknown. The presence of that damned book told a story she could not untell.

But she tried. "There are pictures," she said with a shrug. "I imagine he enjoys the engravings."

"Mm." Herr Sonnenstich made a noncommittal noise, offering her the book from his open hand. She took it, willing her own hand not to shake.

They checked the goat shed and even the chicken coop before returning to the house. Sonnenstich made a show of checking all her kitchen cupboards and every inch of her larder before moving on, inspecting the living room and rattling a poker up the fireplace. He then put his hand to the parlor door, and even though she had seen Melchior disappear into the woods, Frau Gabor took a deep, steadying breath.

He pushed it open.

Inside, the room was silent. The tub of water stood by the crackling stove, not a drop of water marring the wooden floor. The crisp, clean nightgown Fanny had brought for Wendla was still folded on a chair. She watched Sonnenstich gaze around the room before he turned back to her. "An interesting setup," he said.

"I wasn't expecting company," she shot back at him, "and I intended to bathe as soon as I was done with dinner preparations. Really. Expecting a lady to divulge such personal things is an affront, _mein Herr_, and I take great offense."

"You may take it however you like," he said, stepping out of the room and closing the door again. "I want that girl, and you are keeping her from me."

"Search all you like," Fanny said, sweeping her arms in a dismissive motion. "You won't find her."

"Maybe not this time," the headmaster said, and the anger in him was palpable. He paced toward the door, not bothering to even check the upstairs rooms. Fanny rather suspected he believed her, and he knew he wouldn't find them right now, no matter where he looked. "But I _will_ keep looking, and I _will_ find her. You said yourself that she's hurt—she's in no shape to run anywhere, and she can't hide forever. Sooner or later, I will find her. The longer it takes, the worse it will be for her when I do." He paused in the doorway, looking back at Fanny with an expression she hoped never to see on another human face. It was greedy—full of a dire promise of what he planned for Wendla; what he was capable of. "You pass that information along to her when you see her next."

"You keep away from that child," Fanny hissed.

"That child," he said, "is _mine_. I've more right to her than anyone but her dead father, and the grave silences all objections." He chuckled. "Think on that, the next time you see Melchior."

"Do not," Fanny warned, "threaten my son."

"He needs a good threat to learn his place. You sure you wouldn't like to sign him over to me rather than the reformatory? I can present you with results much faster than they can, I assure you." He laughed again. "Farewell, Frau Gabor. I can't tell you what a pleasure it's been."

After Herr Sonnenstich took his departure, Fanny spent a long time staring out the window and wondering what she could possibly do to keep the children safe. They did not come back, and she hoped Otto had resigned himself to a haphazard evening meal, because she just couldn't concentrate. What if the headmaster had somehow found them out in the woods? Or one or both of them were hurt, and unable to return for help? What if Melchior, barely able to trust her anyway, had decided not to come back at all? It was a troubling proposition. Wendla wasn't in any shape to be traveling, and there was really no place for them to go.

But even though she kept watching out the window as she completed her evening chores, Fanny did not see the children. She fed her husband, finished cleaning the kitchen, took scraps to the mother cat in the hayloft, and did not see the children. She emptied the cold remains of Wendla's ruined bath, swept the ash from the stove, and did not see the children. Finally, when there was nothing left to do, she lit a candle, placed it in the parlor window as a sign that all was well, and tried to go to bed.

But, just as she'd suspected, she could not sleep. Otto snored wetly beside her, and though she'd often considered it a comforting sound, now it interfered with her ears as they strained to hear any noises from the yard. Melchior was just a _boy._ A young man not yet prepared to be on his own, let alone taking care of an injured girl. And Wendla—that child was in desperate need of some rest, and she wasn't going to get it if she was constantly scared for her life.

Biting back a sigh, Fanny slipped out of bed and redressed. She couldn't sleep, and lying here in the dark, not knowing what was happening to the children, was driving her mad. Maybe it was foolish to think that she might find them, but she was at least going to try.

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><p>Slowly, agonizingly slowly, Melchior shifted Wendla's body in his arms, trying not to make a sound. He eased her legs down despite her furious grip on him, hating that he had to let go of her, but his ever-present pocket knife was their only weapon and it would do them no good if it remained in his pocket. As she steadied herself on her feet, swaying precariously on muscles that weren't yet ready to support her, he felt his heart go out to her once more. She was not happy about being put down; he could tell by the way she gripped his steadying arm. Wendla was looking for more than just physical support, and he understood that without words. But he had to have his hands free if they had any chance of defending themselves, and he could only hope she knew that.<p>

Some brush rustled nearby, and Melchior saw by the weak starshine filtering through the trees how Wendla's head snapped in the right direction, a pale glimmer of moonlight bleeding down her dark hair. He would protect her, he vowed. No matter what, she wasn't going back to that monster. She was his to protect, and he needed more than ever to prove that he could—that he deserved this chance with her. He wished he could speak—tell her how dear she was to him, how much he loved her. It would make whatever came next so much easier to bear.

Slowly he helped her lean against a tree, her fingers gripping the rough bark tightly, and as he shifted her grasp from his arm to the trunk, he leaned forward and brushed a tender kiss against her jaw. He hoped it was comforting—she only shook harder.

Drawing the pocket knife from his trousers, Melchior flicked it open and shifted his stance into something approximating a crouch. In this position he was ready for whatever came next: a wild animal, or a human bent on harming them. It wouldn't happen, he vowed. Not while he had any hope of preventing it.

The glimmer of a dark lantern suddenly gleamed up ahead, between two bent trees. Melchior squinted at the dim little flickers of light. Whoever was out here, it wasn't a hunter. Hunters knew how to navigate the forest without light, which scared away their prey. This was a person, not an animal, and he had no business skulking around the edges of the Gabor farm in the middle of the night. Not that Melchior could think of, anyway.

But just as he thought the words, the crackle of brush grew louder. The flickers were coming toward them, and he crouched lower, sharing a quick glance with Wendla, urging her to stay as still and quiet as she could. She didn't need to be told. She understood what was riding on this moment.

When the voice came, though, it was not the one Melchior expected.

"Melchior? Son? Please, are you there?" The hushed whisper of his mother sounded in his ears, and relief rushed through him in a crushing wave. He straightened, back aching, just as Wendla let out a tiny sob.

"I heard something," his mother's voice sounded again. "Please, Melchior, if it's you, answer me. I've been looking for you for hours."

"Mama," Melchior said, also keeping his voice low. "Mama, we're here." He turned from the little flickers of light, enveloping Wendla in his arms once more. She turned shakily, her hands and the front of her nightshirt dirty from the tree, but he didn't care. He had his girl, and they were safe. The noise had only been his mother, hopefully coming to tell them that all was well and Sonnenstich had left the house.

"It's all right, _liebling_," he soothed as she clutched handfuls of his shirt, her face buried in her favorite spot in the crook of his shoulder. "It's just mama. It's okay."

"What if he's with her?" she whispered, holding him tightly. "My mama gave me to him. Yours - "

"Shh, dear heart," he murmured. "No. She wouldn't do that."

"It's true, child," Fanny said, and she kilted her skirt up to step over a pile of branches as her figure came into focus. "Your mother must have had her reasons for what she did—I can't assume otherwise. But Melchior loves you, and I will not be the one to betray that." She came closer, touching Wendla's cheek with warm fingers, and unwound a light shawl from her shoulders, wrapping it around the girl's thin frame.

There were damp tracks of tears on Wendla's cheek as she nestled further into Melchior's embrace. He bent, sweeping her back into his arms, and felt her tense muscles relax slightly once she was no longer supporting any of her own weight. Even leaning on him and a tree, standing upright was too much to ask of her right now. His back hurt and he was weary, but he wouldn't let her suffer needlessly. He was strong enough for this—he had to be.

"Is he gone?" he asked, rubbing his thumb against Wendla's leg gently since he couldn't stroke her cheek or touch her hair. It was a tiny gesture, but he hoped it was at least somewhat soothing. "Is it safe?"

"He's gone," Fanny said, but her voice was troubled. Melchior sensed instantly that there was more to the story, but he waited without asking. If it was that bad, he hoped his mother would tell him alone, while Wendla slept. Worrying her wouldn't help anything at this point.

"Please," Wendla said softly, "please, I want to go back to the hayloft. Coming down was a bad idea; we should never have gone into the house at all."

Melchior shared a long glance with his mother, and the troubled expression on her face did not ease. It was hard to tell in the faint lamp and starlight, but he thought he saw a burst of pained compassion cross her strong features.

"Is it safe?" he ventured to ask. His own opinions had not changed: the hayloft did not seem like the best hiding spot, because there was no way to escape. Once up there, they were effectively trapped.

"I...don't know," his mother admitted. "He left, but Melchior..." She shook her head slightly. "We need to get you somewhere truly safe. Somewhere he can't find you."

"I know," Melchior said tightly. "I _know_. But she can't travel; you know she can't."

"I can," Wendla whispered, shifting in his arms. She peered up at him, her eyes wide and soft. "I can try."

"You'd try yourself into an early grave, and I won't have that." He kissed her forehead. "I know you want your independence, _liebling_. I understand. But you have to let yourself rest or you'll never get better."

"I can't rest," she said softly. "He's in my dreams. Today was a nightmare come to life, Melchi, but I just...how can I rest when I know he's still out there?"

And that, Melchior thought, was exactly the problem. She was too afraid to really relax, to let herself rest as she so badly needed to. She could try all she liked, but she couldn't make herself stop being afraid, and that anxiety was wearing her down every bit as much as her physical ailments. At this rate, she would never heal. So, though he loathed the idea of deceiving her, he decided to try. The truth wouldn't help her. And, though he didn't particularly think the hayloft was a good idea, she'd expressed several times now that she felt comfortable there—safer than she felt anywhere else. If that was what she wanted, he'd give it to her. When she looked at him with those big brown eyes, he could deny her nothing.

"He looked around and he left," he said softly, shooting his mother a look that he hoped she would interpret as a plea to keep quiet. "He didn't find us. He'll try somewhere else now, I'm sure of it. We're safe for the time being, Wendla."

"Then we can go back to the hayloft?" she said, and the tremor of hope in her exhausted voice was too much for him to bear. "We can hide, and he won't find us?"

"We can go back," he promised. The choice was against his better judgment, but he was powerless to fight her soft plea. "We can hide. If you're sure that's where you want to be? Where you'll feel safest, and best able to relax?"

She nodded instantly, her soft hair brushing his throat, and she nestled further into his arms. "It's safe up there, Melchior. I want to go back to the hayloft."

"Not the house?" Frau Gabor said gently, touching Wendla's shoulder. "We can put you in Melchior's room. Otto doesn't have to know."

But Wendla shook her head adamantly, and it was clear she didn't like that option. "The house isn't safe," she insisted. Melchior could only imagine how terrified and exposed she must have felt, to be unclothed and vulnerable in a bath in his mother's house when her attacker came to the door and began to prowl. How terrifying. One incident of bad timing did not necessarily mean the house was any more dangerous than the hayloft, but he wasn't going to argue with her. As far as he was concerned, Wendla was going to get whatever she wanted, as long as it was in his power to give it to her.

"Okay," he said. "Okay, _liebling_. The hayloft."

Sharing another speaking glance with his mother, he shifted his grip on Wendla's body before heading out of the woods, breaking into the stronger moonlight lying softly on the farmland. Fanny walked beside them carrying the lantern, and together they made their way back to the barn. He climbed the ladder and carefully lay Wendla on the thick bed of hay as his mother lit the oil lamp with the candle from her lantern. Warm golden light bloomed around them, and Melchior sighed as he saw the little orange kitten curled up on a fold of blanket. Wendla picked up the small ball of fluff, cuddling it against her cheek, and Melchior couldn't find it in him to be impatient about the inconvenient animal. Not when it made Wendla smile, and there was a definite soft curve to her lips at the moment.

"Try to sleep," he urged as he covered her securely, tucking the heavy quilt around her body. Sleep was the best thing for her. It was the only way her body and mind could start to heal.

She nodded a little, her eyes already heavy, and he distinctly heard the little buzzing purr of the kitten, like the sound of a particularly fat bumblebee.

"What happened?" he asked his mother wearily, turning to her. He desperately wanted to curl up with Wendla, to hold her and follow her into sleep, but that just wasn't possible. Not when there were too many questions he needed answered, too much uncertainty about the future.

Fanny nodded her head toward the trapdoor, indicating that it might be better to speak below, out of earshot, but the moment Melchior moved, Wendla grabbed his arm. "Stay," she pleaded. "Please, please don't leave me."

"I'll never leave you," he vowed, and that was that. He settled near her head, stroking the soft, dark curls gently, and within a matter of minutes she was asleep.

His mother let out a long breath. "Thank God you got away," she said, keeping her voice low. "I didn't know what was going to happen, and I hated to think..."

"We went out the window," he breathed. "Wendla hated it, and she was crying and shaking so badly. I felt so helpless, mama."

In that moment, Fanny saw in her son the frustration of an impotent man and a terrified child. He had been unable to both protect and soothe the fragile girl whose safety and happiness was his primary goal, and he'd had to pick her wellbeing over her happiness. It must have been awful, running, frightened, not knowing if they'd been seen or whether they could ever come back.

"She won't hold it against you," Fanny said. Of that, she was confident. Wendla was a sweet, understanding soul. More than that, she comprehended the position they'd been in, and she trusted Melchior. No, Fanny was sure Wendla harbored no ill-will toward anyone but her attackers...and the mother who had given her over to them in the first place.

"I don't know what to do," Melchior admitted, and the words were spoken almost unwillingly. "We need to leave, to go somewhere safe where she can have a chance to heal. But she's not well. She can't even walk."

"It doesn't seem that you have much choice, then," Fanny said, though she knew this was not a welcome opinion. "Once she's well enough to travel, where do you intend to go?"

Melchior let out a breath, watching her with his canny, unwavering gaze. He was measuring her, judging whether he could trust her with the information. Fanny hoped his answer, when it came, would be yes. She didn't know if she could bear watching her son walk out of her life, not knowing where he might be headed.

Finally he spoke. "Berlin," he said, still watching her. "To Aunt Liesl's. She's in Paris right now and the house will be empty."

"It's a good plan." Fanny breathed a silent sigh of relief. At least he was thinking rationally. Her sister's house would be an excellent place to rest and recover. It was a comfortable, lovely home, and the staff would know how to care for Wendla. They could keep away all unwanted guests, assuming Sonnenstich ever figured out where the children had gone. But, of course, they needed to get Wendla there and that was easier said than done.

"I'm worried," Melchior confessed. He dropped his eyes, refusing to look at his mother. "He'll come back. You know he'll come back. He won't stop until he finds her."

Fanny saw the hurt in her son, the worry, and she couldn't bear to do anything to add to it. "It will be all right," she promised. "It has to be."

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><p><em>Mwah! Leave some love, duckies! Till next time!<em>


	16. Chapter 16

_A/N: Just a little birthday chapter for ohwowlovelycassie, because I apparently can't resist those birthday wishes! And yes, this is a taste of what some of you have been waiting for! ;-)_

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><p><strong>Kindheit Ende<strong>

Warm.

Soft.

Wendla moved her hand slightly, tracing just her fingertips over the smooth line of Melchior's neck. She didn't often get to watch him sleep—in fact, she didn't know that she'd ever awoken before him like this. Tired, sick, and hurting, her body's needs took over and forced sleep upon her even when she tried to keep it at bay. Right now it was early morning and she didn't know why she was awake, only that she was. A cool, pale calm hung in the air, a kind of crystalline, waiting stillness, as if the world were, for this one moment, agreeing to give her an ounce of peace after everything that had occurred. The mother cat was missing—off hunting, no doubt—and the kittens played quietly near their basket, only the soft rustling of hay and occasional tiny squeak breaking the silence.

Melchior slept like the dead. Dark circles hung under his eyes, and she wondered as she traced one just how long he'd stayed awake last night, watching over her. At first she hadn't thought she could ever sleep again, not after coming so close to being caught by Herr Sonnenstich. Just as before, though, her sleep did not seem to be under her conscious control. Once Melchior assured her that he wasn't leaving, she had succumbed to the soft, waiting darkness without even really knowing it.

He was such a beautiful boy. She watched him carefully, dark eyes gentle and solemn as they traced across his well-known features, committing each to memory though he was already branded upon her heart. Pretty eyelashes, strong nose and firm jaw, those brown curls she wanted always to touch. His mouth was gentle, the expressive line relaxed into peacefulness as he slept. She traced his lower lip with her fingertip, soft and perfect.

He smelled sweetly male, like a boy, and she buried her head against his shoulder, inhaling deeply. Warm skin and hay, and she hid a smile, turning her lips against him. So honest. So tender with her, so fierce in his protectiveness.

How she'd been so lucky, Wendla didn't know. It all felt rather like a dream—one day she'd stumbled upon him unexpectedly in the woods, talking about education and the plight of the day laborers, and then suddenly as if out of nowhere, he was hers. He had been inside her body—had planted a child there, and she had harbored and cared for it to the best of her ability, for as long as she could. Though the guilt over their shared loss still sat uneasily in her stomach, the immediacy of the grief was slowly passing. They had other worries—bigger ones, like making sure Sonnenstich and her mother could not lay claim to her anymore. All the prayer in the world would never bring their child back, and she knew that.

But she had Melchior. He'd come back to her when she doubted anyone in the world knew or cared where she was, and he'd proven time and time again since then that he loved her and wanted her to be okay. She kissed him gently, ghosting her lips over the sharp line of his jaw, the warmth of his throat.

His hands moved, twitching first, then reaching for her, slow and sure. She couldn't tell if he was actually awake, but it hardly mattered. His fingers traced the full curve of her lower lip, feathered across her cheekbone and wove into her hair.

When his eyes opened, the bright blue clouded with sleep, she let herself smile. There was a peacefulness to him in this moment, a kind of softness that belied the overall tense situation. His arms reached for her, pulling her close against his sleep-warmed body, and it was as if the twining of bodies and arms, tender in this moment but not hesitant, created a bubble the rest of the world could not penetrate.

"So beautiful," he breathed, the soft words brushing warm against her skin, and she shivered with something other than cold.

"I love you, Melchior."

The words were little more than a murmur, and Wendla closed her eyes as his mouth pressed gentle kisses over her face—the corner of her mouth, her cheek, just between her eyes. Her hands traced down his throat, playing with the top button on his shirt for a moment before she twisted her fingers, unbuttoning it.

He did not stop her, didn't protest or question whether she knew what she was doing, and when his shirt was completely unbuttoned he shed it quickly, pulling the fabric from his arms and returning to her, lying side by side, nose to nose. Wendla's dark eyes traveled over him slowly, her fingertips following, feeling pressure neither to continue nor to stop as she traced the contours of his body, the firm lines of muscle and tendon, the soft, slight deposit of baby fat lingering at his stomach. He was warm, so warm, and she pressed her palms against his chest, feeling his body heat seep through her skin, thawing, melting something deep inside her that had seized in fear the moment Herr Sonnenstitch first put his hands on her.

No words were needed, so she spoke none. Instead, she lowered her head and kissed his collarbone, concentrating on this moment, this one singular instant, unattached to past or future. She smelled warm skin and hay, felt him smooth under her hands and upon her lips. His soft, slow breaths were nearly the only sounds in her ears. His hand ghosted over her clothed shoulder, traced down her arm to cup her elbow, rubbing fabric and skin with a gentle, circular motion.

Wendla hadn't seen him before—not like this. They'd been both almost fully clothed the first time he'd touched her body here in his parents' hayloft, and though he'd seen her bare multiple times since then, his body was new and intriguing to her. He was smooth skin over hard muscle and bone, the planes and lines of his form so different from hers. Broad shoulders, wide chest and tiny little nipples that she rubbed her fingertips across, making his breath catch.

He slid onto his back, letting her prop herself up next to him, hovering over his prone form. His soft blue eyes told her that whatever she wanted was fine—she could do as she pleased and he wouldn't stop her. Wendla traced a path down the middle of his chest, first with her fingers and then with her lips, feeling his heart beat against her mouth, finding the juncture of his ribs and the graceful lines of bone alternating with tendon and muscle.

Herr Sonnenstich and his underteachers had been hard and cruel, their bodies punishing and unforgiving as they forced themselves upon her. Melchior was anything but, and though he had been fervent and insistent with her in the past, she had no doubt that he would never hurt her. That ridiculous encounter when she begged him to hit her...he had merely reluctantly done as she asked, and she had a feeling that now, after everything else that had happened since then, he wouldn't do it again. Even if she asked him to. The horror of what had happened to her was too real, and too close.

The male body was an unknown to her, almost completely. She had done her best to block out the painful memories, the Latin words forced unwillingly from her mouth to name things she didn't want to touch, didn't want to see. If that had been her first introduction to carnal knowledge, she would have embraced Father Kahlbauch's insistence that it was a sin without reservation. She would have feared every male body, she suspected. Wanted nothing to do with it. And it wasn't just that they had physically hurt her. They had _forced_ her—bullied and intimidated her until she had no will of her own, and that loss of self, of her own humanity, was what hurt the most. Melchior had made her believe that she had a choice in everything—the choice to believe her priest's teachings or something different. The choice to touch or not to touch—to dare or to live quietly, the way her mama wanted. And then, just as that idea was finally taking root in her heart, it had been ripped violently from her by cold male hands, the dark sweat-smell of their bodies turning her stomach and even now just the memory of it made her want to gag.

But Melchior had shown her before that it didn't have to be that way. That she could be held, and touched, and it didn't have to be forced. It didn't have to hurt. In the end, no matter how many times he'd begged, he hadn't demanded. The final choice had been hers, and hers alone. She had given to him something Herr Sonnenstich could never get, not with all the switches and leather belts in the world.

Because he could so, so easily have turned her into an obedient little animal or doll. He could have broken her will, _forcing_ her to touch and let herself be touched through pure unadulterated fear. But even if he'd succeeded in breaking her, he could never gain her willing consent. She would always loathe it, loathe him, and no amount of coercion could ever change that.

But she was strong. Wendla felt the soft hint of a smile touch the corner of her mouth. She honestly had no idea how strong she was; no one had ever challenged her to exert herself. She was adamant, though, that Sonnenstich would not win. He _would not_ get the satisfaction of seeing her incapacitated, unable to accept the touch she craved from Melchior. Melchior wasn't Sonnenstich. He wouldn't hurt her. And he thought she was strong; he believed in her. Because of that, she was willing to try. For him...but also for her.

Melchior lay quietly as she traced light fingertips across his bare torso, learning him, feathering her lips against him so softly that his skin shuddered with the whispering touch. She studied him with her eyes—pale, milky flesh swirled with peach and red where blood pooled under the surface, following the touch of her fingers and mouth. Soft, unruly curls, sweet light eyes watching her gently, demanding nothing, accepting what she chose to give and nothing more. He had light, coarse hair under his arms, but his chest was bare, flat pink nipples hardening when she traced them first with her knuckles, then her mouth. She could hear his heart rate increase when she kissed him there, so she did it again. He breathed, exhaling deeply, and his eyes closed tightly in a grimace she would recognize anywhere as pleasure. Sweat bloomed on his skin, making his pale shoulders and sharp collarbone glisten enticingly. On impulse, she opened her mouth and licked.

Melchior groaned, his muscles tightening underneath her,, and Wendla did it again, folding her tongue along the dip of his clavicle. He tasted warm and salty-sweet, sweat and hay and skin, and in her mind there was nothing more perfect.

Like anything else in the world, the male body could be used either to hurt or to help, to bring pleasure or pain. It was not in itself evil, and therefore not in itself frightening. Wendla rolled these thoughts around in her mind, wondering if it would be so easy to understand if someone other than Melchior asked it of her. Somehow, she doubted it. She was strong enough to try, strong enough to explore, but Melchior's presence was the safety that gave her that little added courage, the last stepping stone necessary to bridge the valley and not fall into despair.

She took his hand in hers, holding it to her eyes and really looking. His fingers were long, and his palm dwarfed hers when she held them up to each other. He had short, clean nails, a little ragged on a couple of fingers where it looked like he'd maybe been chewing them. Such an uncharacteristic nervous habit rather endeared him all the more to her, and she kissed one fingertip softly before letting it play across her lips, his touch light and gentle, his eyes following the movement as he caressed the delicate flesh.

"So beautiful," he murmured, and though they were words he'd told her often, they still had the ability to make her feel like caterpillars were swirling around in her stomach. When Sonnenstich and his cronies had called her pretty and a little fairy girl, she had felt nothing but dirty. Why Melchior's words created an entirely different reaction she didn't know, but she was glad of it.

Slowly, watching his eyes the entire time, she opened her mouth and let his fingertip slide past her lips, encircling it with warmth. His gaze widened, but he didn't push into her mouth as the teacher had with his penis. Instead, Melchior let her set the pace, doing nothing at all as she nibbled softly on the pad of his finger before releasing it. She traced gentle little kisses down each of his fingers, then kissed the warm smoothness of his palm. Each part of him felt different against her lips, smooth or hard or sleek, and she let her tongue slide across the tender inside of his wrist, feeling the threads of tendon and vein standing out starkly from his flesh. It was a strange feeling, and yet oddly empowering. _She_ was doing this. _She_ was making the choice. Nobody had ordered her to touch, to give, to yield. Melchior's heart beat strong and fast against her hand when she slid it across his chest, and he was breathing deeply, shifting against their bed of hay as if trying desperately to keep still.

"You can touch me," she offered, biting back the caveats that almost flowed from her mouth. _If you're gentle. If you promise not to hurt_. Melchior didn't need the reminder. She trusted him.

"You're hurt," he protested, but his hands rose to close carefully around her waist nonetheless.

Yes, she was sore. And bodily, still very weak. Even propping herself up on an arm right now was something of a struggle, but if she didn't fight, she'd never get better. Right? It seemed to make sense. The day laborers were strong in body because they worked long hours in the fields all year round, while the businessmen of the town—bankers, shopkeepers—were stout and soft or thin and fragile, because they did nothing but sit indoors all day. Applying the same logic, if she tried to push herself, it naturally would make her stronger. Right?

Shaking her head at his comment—not denying the pain, but denying it as an excuse—she reached up to cup his cheek in her hand. His skin was so warm, and it called to her like a bright hearth on a stormy night. She wanted to bask in the glow of that warmth—the safety, the caterpillars, all of it. Everything that he was, that they were together. _This_ was love. _This_ was the sacred union she'd wondered about for so long. And maybe they weren't married, but she didn't care. The feeling cascading through her, from her scalp to her toes, couldn't possibly be a sin. It was too good. Once again, Melchior had been right.

The kiss was a foregone conclusion, and she let her eyes fall closed as her mouth met his in one fragile, perfect, crystalline moment. His breath was hot on her cheek as he exhaled through his nose, his hand coming up to weave through her hair, stroking the curls without pulling, without any hint of pain. Warm mouths, gentle, Melchior still a little hesitant at first, feathering his touches lightly across her lips, brushing soft kisses again and again over her mouth until she thought she might drown in the sensation. She let herself mouth his lips, almost playful, experimenting with what felt good, pulling his lower lip slowly into her mouth with gentle suction. Warm wetness, sweet breath, a soft tingling in her lips as they swelled slightly from his insistent caresses. His hands were delicate, sweeping up her back and across her arms, studiously avoiding the curve of her backside where the worst wounds were. He did not make any attempt to undress her, touching not a single button. Wendla thought she could live with that. He'd seen her already, but her bruises made her a little self-conscious. She didn't like seeing, and certainly didn't like anyone else seeing, how badly she'd been hurt. Those days in Herr Sonnenstich's basement were ones she'd as soon forget, and while she knew that just wasn't going to be possible, she still didn't need to see the evidence displayed in splotches of blue and purple all across her body.

"Can I...?" she asked, moving her hand to brush against the waistband of his trousers. Her heart was beating possibly faster than his, but she wanted to try. This was the part of the body that had caused her the most pain, and she wanted to face it, if he'd let her.

"Are you sure?"

Wendla nodded. She was more sure about this—about him—than anything else in the world. The questions, the curiosity, the _wanting_. Her body was tired, sore, aching for rest, but also for contact, for the reassurance of touch and the knowledge that she was strong enough to push through the terrible things that had happened to her. Melchior was hers and she refused to be cowed, to live in fear of something she shouldn't be afraid of.

They did it together, hands slow and careful as his suspenders dropped and he shrugged out of his trousers and kicked off his socks. Wendla felt a shiver run through her as the sleek line of hair leading down from his navel met her eyes. His hips made an odd V, the definition of muscle slanting down toward where he stood out, stiff and erect, and she let her eyes travel across that V, something her older, overweight captors didn't have. Not that she'd seen, anyway.

Don't be scared," Melchior murmured softly. "You don't have to do anything. You know I won't hurt you, and I'd never force you."

Yes, Wendla knew. He was so gentle, so tender with her, as if one wrong touch or look askance might shatter her. She herself did not know how strong she was—how much, at this point, she could still endure. It was an important question, because they still had so much more to get through before they could even think about calling themselves safe.

"I'm not afraid of you," she said, one of her hands reaching out to touch his hipbone, trace gentle fingers along the line of muscle leading to the soft nest of light brown curls surrounding his shaft. Yes, this was a male body. And male bodies had caused her an unceasing amount of pain in the recent past. But Melchior's body was unlike theirs: the softness of a hint of baby fat still lingering at his belly, the light, silky quality of his minimal body hair, so unlike the coarse, rough texture of the older men. That intriguing V, and just...just everything about him. He did not push or pull her, did not force her to do anything. When she'd asked to return to the hayloft, he had acquiesced. Even now, when his shaft looked swollen and maybe uncomfortable, he wasn't making her do anything about it. She knew in her heart that if she stopped right this minute, telling him she didn't want to continue, he would let her. He wouldn't raise a fuss, and he would put his arms around her and just hold her close if that was what she asked of him. It was a little frightening, being so sure of something like that, and yet, with Melchior, she couldn't be anything but. He had shown her time and time again that he wasn't going anywhere, and he would be for her whatever she most needed. How she'd gotten so lucky, Wendla didn't know, but she had no plans to ever give him up.

Studying his shaft, she thought he was maybe not as big as her tormentors. That would be nice, when her body was healed and finally ready to engage in that kind of intimacy again. It wouldn't hurt. Not like it had with the others.

"Can I touch you?" she asked, flicking her eyes up to watch his face.

He swallowed, but the smile he shot her was warm and gentle. "You can do whatever you want, _liebling_. But I don't want you to feel pressured."

"I don't."

She didn't. She felt questions...wondering herself how much she could handle right now, and if more time was really going to make her feel any better. She wasn't afraid of him. If she wasn't afraid, there was no need to hold back.

Gently, not really knowing how he liked to be touched, she trailed her fingers lightly up his rigid length. The skin was surprisingly soft, almost velvety against her fingertips. He shuddered, exhaling a long, deep breath. Wendla ran her fingers through the soft, light brown curls at the base, traced a fingertip across the gleaming top of his thigh, glistening with sweat.

"You're beautiful," she said, not intending to speak, but suddenly the words were out of her mouth. Still, they were true. He _was_ beautiful. So gentle. So soft. Even if he were plain, the depth of his caring would make him beautiful in her eyes.

"I never want to be away from you," he said, reaching out and touching her cheek.

Yes, she understood the feeling. It was like...almost as if the loss of his presence for more than a few minutes physically hurt something inside her. And it wasn't just her fear of what might happen to her without his protection. That was part of it, but it didn't come close to explaining just how she felt when she woke from vague, unsettling dreams and felt him near her.

"What can I do?" she asked, raising suddenly shy eyes to search his face.

"Whatever pleases you."

That wasn't what she meant, and Wendla took a slow breath, trying to choose different words. "What pleases _you_?" she asked, spreading her delicate hands across his chest, enamored of the softness of skin and the warmth of contact. "You won't make me do anything I don't want to do, and you won't hurt me. That's why I want to try."

"_Liebling_..." He reached out cautiously, giving her every opportunity to pull away if she wanted, and gathered her close to his body. She felt his breath tickle against her ear before she turned her head, nuzzling his cheek. "Would you believe me if I said I don't...really know?" He reddened, and it was such an unusual sight, to see the normally confident Melchior suddenly bashful. "We'll learn together, okay?"

"My body isn't ready."

"I know, dear heart. I don't expect it to be for a while yet. In time. You know I won't force you."

"Yes," she said, smiling softly up at him. "I know."

Gently, using feather-light touches at first, she began to stroke his length, the skin like hot velvet over the hard shaft. The tip was leaking, and Wendla knew enough to understand now that that was supposed to happen. She felt a little uncomfortable as the slick liquid got on her hand, but Melchior moaned abruptly when her slippery hand circled his length and stroked again. She shuddered, his sound of abject pleasure sending a spark of...something...shooting through her. He was enjoying this She was bringing him pleasure without causing herself fear or pain in the process.

"Maybe a little a little firmer?" he said, the words almost a question. "But no faster. It's perfect just—oh. _Oh_."

His body was tense, muscles quivering below the thin surface of warm skin, and her heart rate sped up to race with his as she kissed her way along his torso again, timing the soft touches of her lips with the strokes of her hand. She loved the noises coming out of his mouth—not the deep, animal grunts the disgusting older men had made. Little pleading noises, soft breaths, low moans and even a shocking little growling rumble when she ran her slick thumb over the head very slowly.

This was hers, Wendla thought with elation. This experience, it was something for her and Melchior, and no one else had any say over what they could and could not do. Nobody else had a say in their relationship, or what they did with their bodies.

When he came, streams of thick white liquid arching up over his stomach, delight flowed through her system. Maybe it was a small step in the grand scheme of things, but in her mind, it was huge. She had the power to give this to him, and the strength of will to do it, even though she questioned her own ability. He loved her, he wanted her, and he wouldn't hurt her, instead letting her set the pace and come to him in her own time.

"I never want you to let me go," he begged on a breathy inhalation. "Please, never let me go."

Wendla wasn't planing on it. She didn't know if she could give him up now—if she would survive it. "I love you," she whispered, placing a soft kiss on his jaw. He used a corner of his discarded shirt to wipe away the traces of pleasure, then gathered her firmly in his arms and wrapped them both in blankets.

"I love you," he breathed. "I can't wait until I can show you just how much."

"You do show me," she said, gladly allowing the kiss he reached down for. "Every day." Every soft touch, every time he held her and spoke soothing words was better proof of his feelings than any sexual encounter possibly could be.

They lay quietly together for a few minutes, Wendla enjoying the soft moment as she heard his heartbeat slow to something approximating normal. Her body tingled with the realization of what she'd done, the magnitude of the step she'd taken. She smiled against his warm chest. For maybe the first time since waking up in the hayloft, away from Herr Sonnenstich, she felt more than the barest glimmer of hope that things would turn out all right after all.

"Are you hungry?" Melchior asked finally. "Cold? Tired?"

"No." She hurt, but that wasn't going away anytime soon. And probably she should sleep, but Melchior was so warm and perfect against her, and she'd rather have that than the bad dreams that plagued her rest. "Can we stay here, just like this, forever?"

He didn't answer in words, but the soft chuckle she felt as much as heard was answer enough. She knew as well as he did that they couldn't stay. Their safe haven wouldn't stay safe forever, and they needed to find a better place—a new place to start over and begin the daunting task of building a life out of the shattered remains of their childhoods. But she had faith—deep, abiding, resilient faith. Not so much in God, or in Father Kahlbauch, or anyone else she was supposed to rely on. Her faith was now in Melchior, and herself, and what they shared together. Because if she couldn't believe in that, what else could she possibly believe in?

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><p><em>AN: I keep warning you, we're not out of the woods yet. But I wanted to give them a little fluffy time now. I think they deserve it. :-) Mwah! Loves you, duckies!_


	17. Chapter 17

_A/N: So...anyone miss me? ;-) I had massive writer's block with this chapter (we're talking months, though I don't think I have to tell you that) and finally had to just give you something much shorter than usual because that's seriously all I could wring out of the timespan and still end with my beloved cliffy._

_Also, I've been dragged into the 21st century! No, still no Facebook, but I'm now on Twitter! My Twitter is only for fanfiction stuff and occasional randomness, so you should follow me! at judo_lin_

_BTW, judo_lin is my name at **The Writer's Coffee Shop**, which is an alternate fanfiction site I highly endorse. Everyone here knows that Fanfiction Dot Net has been cracking down on content for the past month or so, right? Deleting stories with graphic content? If you weren't aware, you are now! If any of my stuff disappears from here, it's all still available at TWCS. _

_All standard disclaimers apply._

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><p><strong>Kindheit Ende<strong>

Days passed.

Wendla slept.

She did not make a fuss, did not express any opinions other than her abiding wish to stay in the hayloft and keep Melchior with her. Since he didn't want to be parted from her anyway, it was not difficult to give her what she wanted. He understood his mother's worry, he really did, but it was impossible to deny Wendla. He just couldn't do it. She had been so hurt by the actions of their elders, and he was determined to do nothing to interfere with her small happinesses, such as they were.

It was difficult to tell exactly what else she might want or need. Wendla was sweet and unassuming by nature, and she hated putting people out. To that end, she ate what was put in front of her without complaint, and spoke with shy deference to Melchior's mother. She complained about nothing—not the bed of hay, nor the cold buckets of water she had to wash with since she refused to return to the house for a bath. She admitted to pain and some lingering nausea when prodded, but did not offer the information of her own volition. Melchior knew she was simply trying to be as little trouble as possible, but it worried him that she did not feel comfortable expressing herself. The sweet, passionate girl he had come across in the woods that fateful day, willing to argue for the rights of the day laborers, was nowhere to be found. She was still sweet, still lovely, but the spark of fire in her eyes and personality was missing. Melchior hoped it was buried only, not permanently extinguished. He had such faith in her, and if she needed time after her horrific ordeal in order to fight her way back to herself, then he would give her all the time in the world.

At first, the day she woke and asked to touch him, he'd felt as if it was perhaps a sign of growth, of healing. And maybe it was, but right now her progress seemed stalled, as if she'd taken a step back after fighting so hard to take one forward. She was listless, her sleep troubled and her waking hours quiet.

And it was quite clear that she did not feel comfortable. Increasingly clear as the days inched by, Melchior watching and waiting for her wounds to heal and her strength to return. She slept more than she woke, but her sleep was light and troubled. Nightmares stalked her dreaming hours and she shifted restlessly in the bed of straw, her abused body twisting and tangling in the blankets until she cried from the feeling of being held down. Only when Melchior freed her, removing the constricting blankets and settling them lightly on top of her again, would her sleep calm.

Her fever faded, though she was still hot when she slept, her cheeks glowing bright pink, her skin moist and warm to the touch. Whether it was a lingering problem or just part of her nature, Melchior could not say.

And, perhaps more worrying, her wounds did not appear to be healing. She was no longer bleeding from between her legs and the raw spots of abused flesh had slowly turned softly smooth again. The bruising, however, remained dark, and the worst welt on her backside, which had broken and exposed raw flesh beneath, did not want to close. She did not complain when she sat up to eat or wash, though he knew she had to be in pain.

"I want to try," Wendla argued three days after Sonnenstich came prowling around the Gabor house. Her big, beautiful eyes were bright with insistence, but Melchior wasn't sure.

"_Liebling_," he said, touching her cheek, "are you sure that's the best idea?"

"If I don't keep trying, how will I ever get better?" she asked, using her hands to awkwardly toss the blankets back from her legs. "Will you help me, Melchior?"

He knew her request at least made sense. She wanted to try to stand and walk, and she would have to regain that ability before they could even attempt to make their way to Berlin. But she was weak and hurting, and she seemed so fragile in his eyes. Her body was so much smaller than his, and she looked even tinier swallowed by his nightshirt. He always wanted to put his hands on her, to feel the warm, living flesh of her body, to know that she was still with him, still safe, still alive, still breathing. While she slept, he rested his head near her heart and listened hard to hear it beating. That soft, living thump had become his favorite sound in the world.

Because he could not deny her anything, Melchior took her hands when she held hers up. Her delicate fingers tightened around his and he saw her arms tremble as she tensed, pulling against him to lever her body upright. Her mouth dropped open as she breathed deeply, a look of fierce determination sparking in her dark eyes as her knees shook and she eased herself higher.

"Easy," Melchior breathed. "Careful, _liebling_. Please don't hurt yourself more."

Her eyes squinted shut as, with a final jerk, she forced herself upright. She grasped at his shoulders for balance, her body swaying slightly, but she was standing. "I can do this," she panted, her face a grimace of concentration.

Melchior held his peace. He had no doubt that she could, but whether it was a good idea, he didn't know. She was pushing herself too hard, and his instincts told him she needed to rest rather than strain her hurt body. She'd been in dire condition when he found her, and he could still picture with horrifying clarity the first time he'd really seen what those monsters had done to her body. She was young and strong but, even so, recovery took time.

"Please," he murmured, distraught as he watched the effort it took for her to remain upright, even with his help. "Please, Wendla." He shifted a half-step closer and carefully took her waist in his hands.

Her eyes shot open, then slammed shut again. "Dizzy…" she said, just as her knees buckled. She would have dropped to the floor if Melchior hadn't been holding her.

"Shh, _liebling_," he crooned softly, lowering them both slowly back to the bed of hay. "I know. I know."

"You don't!" she cried, louder than she'd spoken since escaping Sonnenstich's house. "You don't know what it feels like! You can't!"

Melchior held her helplessly as angry cries tore from her throat, raw and piercing. He had a wonderful education, and had filled his head with the words of the masters since he learned to read. He could reproduce Euclid's figures from memory to perfection, could recite whole scenes from _Hamlet_ both in English and in German. Homer, Ovid, Herodotus, even Göthe and Schiller, he knew them all.

And it was absolutely, completely useless. Not one of them could tell him what to do as he held an angry, broken, weeping girl in his arms. What was he supposed to say to her? She was right—he hadn't experienced the torture of body and soul that she had endured. He had no idea how it felt to be abandoned to a monster by his mother, to be kept in the dark for days, unsure if anyone would ever find him—if anyone would even _care_. He didn't know how it felt to know a life was growing within him, or to then have it brutally taken away; he was a man, or soon would be. These were mysteries he would never know, no matter how much he ached to understand.

But he _did_ know how it felt to be forced to leave her—to be sent away by his parents, never knowing if she understood how much she meant to him, or if she would be waiting for him when someday he returned. He knew the pain of Martha's letter, her hurried plea that he help Wendla, and the burning impatience of the journey home, not knowing what sort of trouble she might be in. He understood the gut-wrenching helplessness of watching her hurt, unable to take the pain away.

"He comes for me when I sleep," she cried, kneeling on the quilt and burying her forehead in its folds. Her hands grasped fistfuls of hay until her knuckles turned white. "He holds me down and they laugh—Melchi, I can't stand to sleep, but my body won't stay awake! I want to—I want—"

Yes. Yes, that was a feeling he understood well. The insane wanting, the _need_ to do something—anything—and the utter inability to fix this. Adrenaline poured through his system in answer to her impotent rage. The emotion was too much, too big for a single human body to hold. Were people meant to feel so much, so deeply? Melchior didn't know if he could handle it. And if _he_ couldn't, what about Wendla?

"I don't understand!" She remained bent over, huddled on her knees in a position that had to be uncomfortable. "Make it stop—please! I can't—I can't—"

Would they ever be able to get past this? Would she ever sleep soundly through the night again? Or had Sonnenstich hurt her to the point where she would forever bear not just scars but gaping holes, pain that would never cease, wounds that would never heal?

"Do you want him dead?" he asked finally, his voice tight and almost unrecognizable even to his own ears. "I will kill him for you, if it will help you sleep at night. Please, Wendla. I'll do anything. Just tell me what to do." He was begging by this point, hovering over her body, afraid to touch but also afraid not to. She was breaking apart in front of his eyes, and he was terrified that the pieces might scatter to the wind, never to be reassembled.

"Make it go away," she pleaded, her words muffled by the quilt. "Please, just make it go away."

And that, of course, was something Melchior could not do, no matter how much he wanted to. He couldn't take away her dreams or her memories. He had no miraculous potion to smooth away her scars or give their baby back. These were things she was going to have to live with, if she could.

The 'if not' didn't bear thinking about.

"I can hold you," he told her softly. It wasn't enough and he knew it, but he would offer her everything he could. "I can take you away from here once you're healed. I can kill them so you never have to be afraid again. I can give you another baby, if you want one. But I can't turn back time, Wendla. I'm sorry…so sorry…"

Was the girl from the woods truly gone? The girl who had found him in this very same hayloft, who had ignored his pleas to leave him alone, instead apologizing for something that had been his fault in the first place? The girl with dark fire in her eyes, so passionate and curious about the world, a sort of intense fearlessness hovering about her—who had attacked the other boys for picking on Moritz despite being younger and smaller? He would love her forever, whatever form she took and whatever the cost, but if that young girl was truly gone, he would mourn her deeply.

And then, through the middle of their pain, the tiny orange kitten marched toward their huddled bodies. It climbed toward Wendla's buried face, pawing at her ear with miniscule pink toes.

Melchior was about to pick the animal up, moving it away from the distraught girl, but she shuddered once, then shifted, turning to her side and sweeping the kitten against her damp cheek. It lapped at her several times with a tiny sandpaper tongue, then rubbed its skull against her jaw in a soft circular motion.

Wendla continued to cry, but she held the kitten as carefully as she might a baby bird, stroking its fur, her tears falling to the quilt. She was no longer hysterical, but the broken sound of her sobs made Melchior feel like his chest was breaking open, everything delicate inside now exposed to the harshness of the world.

"_Beruhigt, mein Schätzchen_," he said finally. "_Alles wird schließlich gut. Bitte, hängen __nur__ an._"

But his promise meant nothing two days later when Sonnenstich came back with help.

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><p><em>AN: Don't kill me! You knew it was coming._


End file.
